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A HOMESTEADER'S 
PORTFOLIO 



THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 

NEW YORK • BOSTON • CHICAGO • DALLAS 
ATLANTA • SAN FRANCISCO 

MACMILLAN & CO.. Limited 

LONDON • BOMBAY • CALCUTTA 
MELBOURNE 

THE MACMILLAN CO. OP CANADA, Lm 

TORONTO 




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A HOMESTEADER'S 
' PORTFOLIO 



BY 

ALICE DAY PRATT 



Bt^ gotli 

THE MACMILLAN COMPANY 

1922 

All rights reserved 



PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 



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Copyright, 1923, 
By the MACMILLAN COMPANY. 



Set up and printed. Published October, 1922. 



Press of 
J. J. Little & Ives Company 
New York. U. S. A. 



nCT25'22 

©CU686467 



CHAPTER 
I. 

II. 

III. 

IV. 
V. 

VI. 

VII. 

VIII. 

IX. 
X. 

XI. 

XII. 

XIII. 

XIV. 

XV. 

XVI. 

XVII. 

XVIII. 



CONTENTS 

PAGB 

The Adventure i 

The Roundup ........ 7 

Business Is Business 15 

The New Land in Autumn .... 21 

The New Land in Spring .... 29 

Incubation 38 

The Life of the Pioneers .... 42 

"And the Evening and the Morning 

Were the First Day" .... 46 

White Leghorns 54 

Acquaintance , 66 

The Bachelors 71 

The Old Oregonian 73 

The Quest of Diogenes 76 

Dinner in the Basin 80 

"Behold^ in the Tent" .*.,.. 86 

Spring 97 

Aunt Polly, Pioneer 103 

"To-morrow and To-morrow and To- 
morrow" 112 

V 



vi G>ntents 

CHAPTER PAGE 

XIX. Bossy and Psalmmy 125 

XX. Fly 133 

XXI. The Companions 136 

XXII. The Survival of the Fittest . . . 139 

XXIII. The Witness 151 

XXIV. Plowing 158 

XXV. The Old Oregonian Again . . . . 164 

XXVI. To Have and to Hold 170 

XXVII. Afterword 178 

A Tribute 180 



LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 

Prineville, County Seat of Crook County . . Frontispiece 

FACING PAGE 

The Grand March, Pendleton Roundup .... 8 

Friar Butte 26 

Untamed Fields of Broadview 26 

White Leghorns (Enjoying a Winter in Town) . . 56 

"Whitefaces," Typical Central Oregon Herd . . 74 

Bingo — (Guard of Broadview) 112 

The Lodge in the Wilderness 112 

The Serpent in the Garden 140 

The House that Eggs Built 140 

The Lone-hand Crop . • .^ .. ,•, • ^. > . 172 



SONG OF THE HOMESTEADERS 

Serried and sharp is the region's rim 
Like lunar cliifs clear-cut and bold, 
Plains under quivering waves of heat, 
Plains under fierce, untempered cold. 
Dreary the landscape, lichen-gray, 
Sage brush and juniper miles on miles. 
Never a wood bird whistles gay, 
Never a violet peeps and smiles. 
Coyote and jack rabbit, wolf and owl, 
Prairie dog, eagle, and rattlesnake. 
Bones of the bison and starveling steer 
Season on season bleach and bake. 

Whirling dust storm and shifting sand— 
This, oh this, is the Promised Land! 

Silvery, sinuous, ditch and flume 
Leading down, from the arid steep, 
Water of life to the land below — 
Virginal valleys rich and deep. 
Limitless orchards of peach and plum 
Checking the landscape east and west, 
Garden and vineyard and soft-eyed herds, 
And woolly flocks with abundance blessed. 
Bam and haystack and bungalow 
And blaze of flowers for the passerby. 
And soldierly ranking of poplar spires 
Silhouette on the sunset sky. 

And sweet-breathed meadows a billowy sea- 
This is the Country-That-Is-To-Be ! 



A HOMESTEADER'S PORTFOLIO 



THE ADVENTURE 

About the year nineteen-ten came to me — teacher 
and spinster — the conviction that Fate had paid me 
the compliment of handing over the reins. She had 
failed to provide for me that ideal relationship 
which alone Is the basis of the true home, and I 
was by nature obdurate toward accepting anything 
less at her hands. When a youthful friend was 
surreptitiously chidden for using the term *'old 
maid" In my presence, the incident gave rise to 
thought. What now? I asked myself. Quo vadis, 
old maid? What will you do with life? Perhaps 
you have known the glory and the dream. Will you 
subsist henceforth upon the memory thereof or shall 
life continue to be for you that "ecstasy" "nothing 
less than which Is worthy of the name" ? 

But by what route, If any, was that ecstasy to be 
attained? Not In the character of an "unplucked 
rose on the ancestral tree" — an illustration of the 

[I] 



A Homesteader's Portfolio 

immemorial dependence and subjection of the femi- 
nine. Not through that occasional achievement — 
"fifty years a teacher." The road that led that way 
was far too closely hedged about by organization, 
boards, principals, superintendents, wise and other- 
wise parental interference, for any satisfying and 
permanent results. Not through social service as I 
knew it in the great city. The slum missionary with 
a country heart is far more truly a subject for charity 
than little Paolo and Francesca in the tenement of a 
thousand souls. One's course, to be most effective, 
must be in line with one's spontaneous loves and 
interests. 

For some months, while work went on as usual, I 
reflected deeply, and gradually evolved the determi- 
nation to be a creative farmer. There recurred to 
me the longing and ambition — innate but hitherto 
suppressed — to own a portion of the earth's crust 
in my own right and to tamper with it unrestrained. 
I would build a farm, whereon I could exercise my 
delight in all forms of nature life and to which in 
time I might bring some little unparented children, 
on whom to wreak my educational convictions and 
whom I might hope some day to turn over — a little 
bunch of good citizens — to my native land. 

My fellow teachers wondered somewhat that 
winter at my unaffected cheerfulness under certain 
afflictions that visited themselves upon us. They 
never dreamed that I was all the time afar on the 

[2] 



The Adventure 

prairies with the wind in my hair and the smell of 
new-plowed earth in every breath I drew. 

From the Department of the Interior I obtained 
facts as to public lands — for I had no treasure laid 
up wherewith to buy. Anyway, the virgin soil suited 
my plan. My farm was to be a true creation. 

Gradually the prospective field narrowed itself 
until I had decided upon Oregon. Then, that I 
might not be a pauper immigrant, I decided to pro- 
cure a school in the state and take what time might 
be required for finding my waiting acres. Through 
the State Superintendent, rather late, I obtained a 
position as primary teacher in the little town of 
Athena, eastern Oregon, and, on one memorable 
September day, companioned by an inseparable 
brown dog, I found myself about to embark upon 
the great adventure. 

"Portland, Oregon? To your left. Leaves in 
twenty seconds." The forbidding gate clanged to 
behind me and I sped down the track. 

"Portland, Oregon? Right here. Mind the step, 
Madam. All aboard !" The conductor and his little 
stool swung themselves up behind me and the fast 
train for the Pacific coast moved noiselessly out of 
our great metropolis. Behind, what extremes of 
gayety and misery, what competition, what life at 
high pressure! Before, what calm, what freedom, 
what limitless spaces, what hope and opportunity! I 
had become a homesteader! 

[3] 



A Homesteader's Portfolio 

Out of Manhattan, out through garden-like 
suburbs bright with velvet lawns and asters and 
scarlet sage, through golf links and country clubs, 
slowly climbing into high and woodsy places where 
belated summer people thronged the platforms and 
plodded along the dusty roads. Over the mountains 
and down again through mining camps and iron 
towns blazing their flashlights to the sky. Out into 
lovely old farm lands whose fields and vineyards 
creep to within a stone's throw of a white-capped 
inland sea — and the farm-house windows look on 
both. Out into the dear, familiar Middle West, 
with its boundless undulating tide of crops and crops 
and crops, its Lombardies and its windmills, its 
roomy, hospitable homes and spacious barns — homes 
sheltering the bent and withered parents of college- 
bred sons and daughters. 

In and out of the smoky shroud of a great city; 
over the river and into the corn lands — corn and 
corn and corn, a day of corn! Corn on the stalks 
for miles and miles, corn in huge, golden pyramids 
upon the ground, corn in wagons, corn in cars, corn 
in towering warehouses. Once, in a prairie of corn, 
the train came to a sudden halt and there was an 
altercation vigorous but brief. A fellow traveler, 
who had stolen out to investigate, came back laugh- 
ing and explained that it was "bums." "Bums on 
top, underneath, and all over us," he testified. "The 
conductor's shaking them here where they can get a 

[4] 



The Adventure 

job If they want It. Don't seem to take to the idea 
much." He had brought back with him two or three 
sample ears of corn which he measured upon his arm 
— the full length of the lower arm from elbow to 
finger tips — "American gold," he commented, strok- 
ing the polished ranks of seed. 

Somewhere In this borderland also we were 
flagged at a crossroads where was a sign bearing 
the legend "Rawhide." "Yes, bragged that he'd 
kill the first chief he met," related a neighbor, 
"down-East boy, just a youngster, he was. That's 
where he met his man. The tribe stayed their march 
just long enough to tack up his skin on a tree that 
grew where that sign stands." 

And, suddenly, with daylight of the third morn- 
ing, there is a change. We have slept in the old 
land and waked in the new. The sun comes up In 
red-gold majesty above a lofty, untamed, illimitable 
land that sweeps ever upward in bold, bare reaches 
to its crown of bold, bare mountain summits, un- 
softened by foliage, undimmed by distance — clear- 
cut as the mountains of the moon. The Northwest 
— the great plains, the land of wild-west romance 
and cowboy domination! Early in the gray dawn 
of this morning I hear across the aisle in eager girl 
tones, "Mother, Mother, guess what place this is! 
Medicine Bow! and there is a hotel over there called 
The Virginia.' Oh, my!" 

Up on the highest point of the railroad, eight 

[5] 



A Homesteader's Portfolio 

thousand feet above sea level, where many miles of 
gigantic snowsheds tell of abomination of desola- 
tion in the winter season, something caused a few 
moments' halt and the passengers got out and 
walked beside the train. In sparkling draughts 
from the direction of the dawn, came that atmos- 
phere that brings life to the lifeless — champagne- 
like, intoxicating! Eastward to the golden morn- 
ing, westward to the soft-toned horizon, northward 
and southward the view was limited but by the eye's 
own mechanism. In every direction one might ride 
for days without guide and without trail. Standing 
bareheaded on the heights, filled with new plans and 
with new hopes, one pilgrim surrendered herself to 
the spirit of the West I 

At noon of the fourth day out, the conductor 
walked the train with jovial apology, announcing a 
holiday for the purpose of attending the circus. In 
fact the train would be held up for five hours at 
Pendleton and every one could go to the "Roundup." 
What was the Roundup ? Why, an annual wild-west 
show characteristic of the country. No one, having 
seen it, would regret the delay. There was many- 
hued disappointment among the passengers, but, on 
the whole, amused and curious acceptance of the 
circus idea, and all turned out into the bustling, 
dingy streets of Pendleton. 



[6] 



II 

THE ROUNDUP 

The dingy streets of Pendleton, on this final and 
great day of the show, were filled with a seething 
and motley multitude. There had been a street 
parade and its elements passed hither and yon on 
various errands, mingling with guests from a dozen 
states who had honored the event with their pres- 
ence. Dashing western gentlemen — officers of the 
day — sheriffs and mayors and private citizens, gal- 
loped this way and that, making arrangements for 
the afternoon. Young buckaroos in outlandish 
chaps — black and white, crimson, mustard-colored 
and green — paraded with due importance, three or 
four abreast. Here and there a group elicited loud 
applause from the bystanders. Women of all 
grades, from pretty ladies in handsome riding cos- 
tume to savage-looking squaws bare-headed and 
blanketed, made common holiday. Scores of spec- 
tators crowded about a harness-maker's window in 
which were displayed the gold-and-silver-Inlaid sad- 
dle and the jeweled bridle — prizes to be awarded 
the champion of the buckaroos and of the eques- 
triennes. Evidently there was no nooning on this 

[7] 



A Homesteader's Portfolio 

festive day. Lunches were hastily snatched from 
booths on the street, and the crowd melted from the 
thoroughfare to reappear In the great outdoor am- 
phitheater, which, by one o'clock, was packed to the 
last seat on the bleachers. 

Five hundred horses chafed at the gates; one hun- 
dred wild-eyed young steers tossed their horns In 
the enclosures; the band played intermittently and 
the feet of the expectant crowd beat time upon the 
benches. In the arena, the water wagons prepared 
the ground, and that ubiquitous black-eyed horse- 
man of the official decoration — the goal of number- 
less feminine eyes — the marshal of the Roundup — 
sped his deputies hither and yon. Above all hung 
that indescribable, diamond-dust western sky, swept 
by fleeces of cloud soft as the down on the breast of 
a swan. Near at hand, low, rock-rimmed hills en- 
closed this new-world drama from all the world 
without. 

The trumpet blast, the Instant parting of the 
great gates, the forward leap of the leaders of the 
grand parade, and In they come — gallant gentlemen 
and dainty misses of the western metropolis, 
browned ranch maids and buckaroos, male and fe- 
male champions of the ranges, sullen squaws In rain- 
bow garb and resplendent savages In paint and 
feathers. Varied as the hues of their habiliments 
are the riders, yet exhibiting without exception that 
one gift in common — the careless command of the 

[8] 




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The Roundup 

horse and saddle. While the audience roars itself 
hoarse for its favorites, they ride below in proud 
and smiling nonchalance. The broad felt hat is 
raised to this hail and to that. The gauntleted hand 
flies up in joyous salute to neighbors and home folks 
on the benches. One guesses how many days of 
ranch-house drudgery have been lightened for that 
smiling maiden by the thought of this day when, 
with new riding suit and saddle, she will ride with 
the youth of her choice in the Roundup at Pendle- 
ton, or, during how many solitary nights on the 
plains that champion has pictured the face that shall 
witness his triumph in the Pendleton arena. 

On the benches, alert and keen-eyed western citi- 
zens, professional men late from eastern universi- 
ties, grizzled ranchers and homesteaders, and many 
a king of wheat and of cattle claim their share in 
the grace and new-world chivalry, the dauntless 
courage and conquest of Nature represented there 
below. Little wrinkled grandmothers scramble to 
their feet and cackle congratulations to Buddy or 
Sissy for whom they once played cock horse back 
there in the old ranch kitchen. Sunburned ranch 
mothers claim proprietary interest in "Buck" and 
"Hank," who have herded their husbands' steers. 
A continuous round of applause accompanies each of 
half a dozen champions as he makes the circuit. 
Hat in hand and smiling, rides Buffalo Vernon, king 
of the rangers, indomitable tamer of the cayuse and 

[9] 



A Homesteader's Portfolio 

the steer. A slender woman — Mrs. Dell Blanchett 
— spares one hand from the management of her 
careering horse to answer a thousand plaudits. The 
Indians, proud and stoical, greet the uproar of the 
spectators with hideously striped and stony visages. 
The parade disposed of, the program leads up 
gentiy from less violent feats of horsemanship to 
the grand climax — the bucking scene. The slender 
son of a ranger has trained three little grays to act 
in response to his touch and voice with the precision 
of a mechanical toy. Neck to neck, with even, un- 
broken gait, they trot, gallop, and leap the hurdle, 
while the young master stands lightly with a moc- 
casined foot on either outside horse, the third run- 
ning beneath the arch of his limbs. There is a cow- 
boy race abounding in right-about turns and break- 
neck maneuvers, that call for the sure-footedness of 
a cat and the agility of an ape. There is a girls' 
relay race — three times round, change horses each 
time and saddle your own — in which an agile slip of 
a girl, with a bunch of curls tied in her neck, is about 
to win in the final round. Suddenly her horse^bolts, 
crashes into the fence, falls and flings his rider head- 
long into the pen of steers. The hush of horror is 
broken only by a deafening strain of applause, when, 
up, mounted, and passing her mates with a back- 
ward smile, she reaches the goal an easy length 
ahead. Next, he who can run down his steer, rope, 
throw, and hog-tie him in the minimum number of 

[10] 



The Roundup 

seconds, comes In for his reward. Buffalo Vernon 
must show how, unaided save by his own native 
strength, he can fling himself from his horse upon 
the neck of a racing steer, conquer, bring him to 
earth, and hold him there with his teeth, rais- 
ing both hands to the crowd above the prostrate 
captive. 

The broncho-busters' contest to-day Is the grand 
climax not only of the day's program but of the 
three days' show, the most desperate horses hav- 
ing been reserved, and the successful contestants of 
the preceding days being elected to ride them. Each 
candidate is provided with an untried horse, and 
both brute and human, as if conscious of their re- 
sponsibility to the expectant throng, rise magnifi- 
cently to the occasion. There is one new and final 
feature. There remains an unconquered broncho — 
a horse unsuccessfully attempted on the two preced- 
ing days. It happens that Joe Raley alone among 
the contesting buckaroos has not yet essayed to 
ride him, and now there are cries from the spec- 
tators of ^'Raleyl Raley! Let the youngster try 
him. Let Raley ride him." Raley comes forward 
from the group of contestants and removes his hat, 
bowing to the crowd. 

And now at length he stands — the observed of 
all observers — in the center of the arena — the Out- 
law, the rebel, the man-hating, untamable cayusel 
He is held at halter's length by a man on horseback. 

[II] 



A Homesteader's Portfolio 

He stands stiffened, braced, with all four feet apart, 
his head drawn back. He is approached only on 
horseback. Two horsemen ride up quietly one on 
either side. Gently and with infinite deliberation 
they draw the blind over his eyes. From now on he 
is motionless, save for a trembling that possesses 
him wholly — a seemingly cold, stark terror of man 
and his ways. A man on the ground passes the sad- 
dle — high-backed, two-cinched, equipped with buck- 
ing rolls^ — to the horseman on the left. The horse- 
man transfers it by imperceptible degrees to the back 
of the Outlaw. The man on the ground, reaching 
beneath the ridden horse, places the straps in the 
cinch rings and passes them to the horseman, who 
draws them up, inch by inch, inch by inch, to a vise- 
like tightness. He then gives the signal to the wait- 
ing buckaroo. Now Joe Raley steps forward be- 
tween the Outlaw and the ridden horse on the left. 
With a quick movement he places his foot in the 
stirrup and swings himself to the saddle, his right 
foot dropping as if by instinct into its place. The 
horsemen on either side, having removed the halter, 
back quickly away, drawing off the blind. The Out- 
law is left without bridle or halter. The rider raises 
both hands to the benches in token of good faith. 
He must not "touch leather" during the trial. He 
pulls off his hat and strikes the horse upon the 
shoulder. 

The Outlaw, the vision of the vast human herd 

[12] 



The Roundup 

being suddenly laid bare before him, sits back upon 
his haunches as if confronting a specter. Then he 
rises slowly upon all fours and then on two feet, 
pawing madly in the air. The blow of the hat upon 
his shoulder startles him and he makes a great leap 
forward, and another, and another, striving to 
plunge from under the terror that bestrides him. 
He takes an instant's counsel with himself. He can- 
not run from under the terror. He must dislodge 
him. Gathering himself together he leaps almost 
directly upward, coming down with stiffened limbs, 
humped back and all four feet together. Again 
and again, higher and higher he leaps. The force of 
his impact with the earth Is terrible. The spectators 
lean forward breathless. Raley sees them through 
a blinding mist, every faculty of his being concen- 
trated upon the one task of sticking to his steed. 
His young face is a furrowed mask of deadly deter- 
mination. He gathers every last resource to meet 
some new emergency. What is it? The horse is 
shaking himself till his bones rattle in their sockets. 
Then, as if beside himself, he runs sideways, bursts 
through the slight inner railing that encloses the 
field, smashes up against the wall of the grand- 
stand, and stands with head hanging, resource ex- 
hausted, confessedly beaten. 

The marshal gives the signal. Time is up. The 
buckaroo has won I He leaps to the ground and 
bows to the wildly cheering crowd. And so, with 

[13] 



A Homesteader's Portfolio 

the awarding of the prizes, the inlaid saddle to Joe 
Raley, youngest of the buckaroos, the jeweled bridle 
to the little lady with the bunch of curls, the chaps, 
the spurs, the lasso and the rest, so it closes — the 
great show, a show unsurpassed as an exhibit of 
native strength and physical prowess, not without 
brutality — a brutality that will pass away in the 
coming years before the finer chivalry that evolves 
the gentle man. 



[14] 



Ill 

BUSINESS IS BUSINESS 

On the fifth morning after my embarkation, I 
awoke in a gorgeously flowered bedroom (I still re- 
call an uncanny effect of creeping things among the 
blossoms of that wall paper) — awoke to the five- 
o'clock clatter of stone china in the lower regions of 
my inn, to the aggressive cries of magpies on the 
near-by fields, and to the creaking of heavy wagons 
— two or three in a string and drawn by half a dozen 
shining mules — piled high with wheat for shipment. 
Athena is but a wheat-shipping station and, in this 
character, as the center of that wonderful land- 
scape of golden fields and purple fallow rolling away 
in every direction, it fully compensated, to my mind, 
for its dingy hotel, its primitive little dwellings, and 
its unattractive streets. Autos came and went con- 
stantly between the wheat fields and the station. 
Continuous trains of wheat-laden wagons passed and 
passed. Marvelous Oregon fruit came daily to my 
lunch basket from eager little givers, and the tin- 
gling September days were enchanted days to me. 

This is not a chronicle of pedagogical experience, 
but my brief term in Athena presents elements of 

[IS] 



A Homesteader's Portfolio 

universal experience that tempt me to include it. 
The Athena graded school was enjoying a revival, it 
would seem, from a state of comparative lethargy. 
The new epoch was marked by a renovated building, 
a new school board, a new principal, and a com- 
plete corps of new teachers. Several of the teachers 
had been engaged at the last moment, as had I my- 
self, by telegraph. 

A commercial department had been installed and 
my nearest neighbor in the hotel — a Kentucky girl — 
had been wired for, through an agency, to conduct it. 
Perhaps it was our proximity in our domicile that 
led her, in the course of the first few days, to confide 
in me a keen anxiety. The equipment for her de- 
partment had been delayed, which made it impos- 
sible to open her classes the first week. This cir- 
cumstance had blinded us all to any cause of won- 
derment that there were two commercial teachers in 
the force. Toward the close of the week, however, 
the principal informed her casually that she would 
not be needed. There had been an unfortunate 
error, he said, through which two teachers had been 
selected for the same place, and while they regretted 
any inconvenience to her, it was inevitable that they 
should let her go. To her alarmed protest, the prin- 
cipal replied that he thought there was to be a va- 
cancy in the grades and that she might have that 
when it should occur. The salary would be sixty- 
five instead of eighty, for which she had been en- 

[i6] 



Business is Business 

gaged, but it was fortunate that there was any open- 
ing at all. 

The other teacher, who had been preferred, told 
her story frankly. A telegram offering the position 
to her had reached her home. Acceptance if prof- 
fered was to be Immediate and by wire. She had 
been absent on a camping expedition and the tele- 
gram lay for some days unanswered. Upon receipt 
of it, she had wired that she would come on favor- 
able reply and, receiving no reply, had packed up 
and come on the chance of being In time. The 
Athena principal, meanwhile, being Informed by the 
telegraph operator that this young lady could not 
be reached, had Immediately wired an offer of the 
position, stating salary and length of term, to the 
Kentucky girl, had received her acceptance, and con- 
sidered the matter closed. The disturbing incident 
was the arrival of the first candidate. 

The interval of delay in the furnishing of the 
department offered a convenient opportunity for 
gauging the situation. Probably the board and prin- 
cipal preferred the personality of the western girl — 
she was from Iowa — but I have always uncharitably 
believed that the fact that the rightful claimant was 
twice as far from home and male champions and 
gave, moreover, considerably less evidence of being 
able to fight her own battles was the determining 
factor. I gathered, from the southern girl's confi- 
dences, that there had been financial difficulty at 

[17] 



A Homesteader's Portfolio 

home and that this venture of hers — a great venture 
for a southern girl — had been made In the hope of 
saving the day at a critical juncture. She was a 
thousand miles from home. She was already ninety 
dollars out of pocket. She had borrowed for the 
expense of her journey. She had had only com- 
mercial training, had never prepared herself for 
grade work, or had any experience therein. 

In response to her solicitation I went with her to 
each member of the board — all of whom, as fate 
would have it, were lawyers. They admitted, sev- 
erally, that she held a perfectly legal contract. She 
had preserved both telegrams — the detailed offer of 
the position and a copy of her own acceptance. They 
agreed to a board meeting, but would promise noth- 
ing further. The county superintendent was sym- 
pathetic, but curiously ineffective. A Pendleton 
lawyer consulted gave the opinion that there was no 
flaw in her case, but refrained from advising her to 
prosecute. In the end, penniless and weeping, she 
departed for a country school offered her, having 
indignantly refused the offer of grade work from 
employers who had already given her such a deal. 
Just here the curtain falls upon the affairs of my 
unfortunate friend and rises upon mine. 

I was naturally considerably disturbed by my 
close knowledge of this small tragedy and my sense 
of justice was seriously outraged. On the morning 
of the girl's departure for a neighboring district, I 

[i8] 



Business is Business 

visited each teacher and suggested that, as a body, 
we voice a protest against this unjust dismissal of 
one of our number and petition that her case be 
reconsidered. Previous to this time there had been 
the familiar murmurings — the dark looks visited 
upon one in authority when one of a band of em- 
ployees is unjustly dealt with. It was a matter of 
grave surprise to me, therefore, that not one of the 
force was willing to connect her name and fate with 
the controversy. I was "in it'* now. I could see 
that. Not only had I been associated with the dis- 
cussion throughout, but now, to cap the climax, I 
had attempted to incite rebellion in the force — a 
heinous crime in the eyes of any "honorable board" 
and principal. 

It was, therefore, in part a concession to fate, but 
still more a concession to my own emotions, that I 
sent in my resignation, asking that it be regarded 
as a protest against the decision of the board with 
regard to my friend. Immediately after writing 
this out I sent a full account of the affair to the state 
superintendent, through whose offices I had come 
into the Oregon school system. No notice was ever 
taken of this letter. When I learned, in the course 
of time, that my principal and county superintendent 
had been "whippers up" in the state superintend- 
ent's recent campaign and that our board members 
were active politicians I thought I had some addi- 
tional light on the whole affair. 

[19] 



A Homesteader's Portfolio 

To my resignation, on the other hand, there was 
no lack of reaction. From that moment I was a 
criminal. Only one teacher — after having been 
summoned alone to the office and duly threatened — 
dared to sit upon my desk and swing her feet in full 
view of the entrance hall. Bless her! She was the 
youngest of the lot. The others studiously avoided 
me and hastened to disclaim all sympathy and con- 
nection with my activities. I had claimed the thirty 
days' grace allowed by law In which to place myself 
elsewhere, but was Informed that my place would 
be occupied at once. Acting upon legal advice, I 
stood to my rights and returned to my schoolroom 
on the following Monday. The new teacher was 
In the building but did not show herself to me, and 
all that week I taught undisturbed. On Saturday 
morning the clerk of the board delivered In person 
an Indictment of half a dozen charges Involving 
prodigious offenses against the law which I had 
practiced during my two weeks of occupation, sum- 
moning me to make defense or accept dismissal. 
The bitterness of the document was antldoted for 
me by the fact that the principal had publicly ex- 
pressed especial approbation and satisfaction in the 
opening of my regime, and also by a simultaneous 
offer by the county superintendent of a much more 
desirable position. 



[20] 



IV 

THE NEW LAND IN AUTUMN 

Just one vivid picture of my second location as 
I knew It In late autumn, rises out of the obscurities 
of memory: The month Is October, the region 
northeastern Oregon. The Pilgrim sits upon the 
projecting end of a slender footbridge that spans 
the big ditch that governs the new Irrigation pro- 
ject In Umatilla County. The bridge Is placed just 
where the ditch rounds the crest of a low, barren 
hill, and affords a fair prospect of the surrounding 
country. One can look far down the valley of the 
Umatilla on the right, and on the left can see the 
greater part of the extensive level tract that con- 
stitutes the Project. 

The thoughts with which the Pilgrim surveys the 
scene lack animation. It Is Indeed a strangely color- 
less landscape — gray sky, gray hills, gray sage- 
brush tracts. Even the developing Project seems 
lost In the gray ocean of desolation. The little 
checker boards of fruit trees are leafless and scarcely 
visible. The fields are crossed at regular Intervals 
by gray windrows of sagebrush, laid In the hope of 
^'holding down the soil" till the crops shall spring. 

[21] 



A Homesteader's Portfolio 

The little homes are far away and blended with the 
dominant monotone. The Pilgrim's gaze drops to 
her shoes, which are white with volcanic ash through 
which she has struggled ankle-deep a long, long way. 
She is weary. Eastward, a gray-brown cloud is roll- 
ing up. It is one of the first of the season's dust 
storms. Westward, a similar storm of different 
origin approaches. A flock of sheep advance en» 
veloped and hidden in an obscurity of their own 
creation. 

There is a step on the footbridge. The Pilgrim 
arises startled. A black-robed priest is coming to- 
ward her — a figure as somber and colorless as all 
else, save for a pair of blue, black-lashed eyes that 
suggest he might once have played upon the Irish 
grass. He pauses beside the Pilgrim and stoically 
surveys the scene before them. 'And how long 
have you been in this country, Madam?" 

''One month." 

"And how long do you Intend to remain?" 

"I came to locate." 

"God help you !" and he resumes his walk. 

From Stanfield — my location in Umatilla — I went 
down, during Thanksgiving week, to Baker, to at- 
tend the state teachers' association meeting. Here, 
while the usual lectures, methods classes, and ex- 
hortations proceeded, came the word of fate to me 
in the shape of a summons from my locator In Prine- 
ville, Crook County, Central Oregon, to come down 

[22] 



The New Land in Autumn 

at once to look at a homestead location just discov- 
ered that seemed particularly desirable. I ran the 
gauntlet of disapproving county superintendents and 
institute directors and finally secured parole and de- 
parted in great glee, not stealthily but nevertheless 
by night, for the land of promise. 

Something was wrong with our schedule and I 
recall most distinctly being turned out at an un- 
earthly hour In the morning at raw little Umatilla 
station, to procure the only breakfast that was to 
be ours. Here, while we drank warmed-over coffee, 
and made the best of bread and butter — with the 
cook in plain view frantically but hopelessly peeling 
raw potatoes — I had a delightful little word with 
Dr. Campbell, president of the state university. 
He, with Dr. Churchill, afterwards state superin- 
tendent, and one or two others of note had been 
speakers before the association and had raised my 
fallen estimate of the representatives In the state of 
the noble art of teaching. 

Then came the Columbia and its sand dunes — the 
latter much more in evidence at that season than 
the river. I was later to see the Columbia in flood, 
filling the valleys, and affording the mightiest ex- 
ample of a river that I have known. 

The Dalles was my changing point. At Baker I 
had been almost directly in line with my destination, 
but there Is, even yet, no railroad across Central 
Oregon. One must go to this northern point — The 

[23] 



A Homesteader's Portfolio 

Dalles — and then almost directly south In order to 
reach that region that has a character and climate 
all its own. Near to the depot at The Dalles is a 
little building devoted to an exhibition of Oregon 
products. It is with amusement that I recall stand- 
ing spellbound before a jar of Japanese persim- 
mons — huge ones, they were new to me — and read- 
ing the label, ^'Royal Anne Cherries." Query: Was 
it an innocent error on the part of the labeler or was 
it an imposition upon the credulity of the tender- 
foot? 

All day we climbed the course of the Deschutes, 
a rapid, turbulent river walled by bare bluff moun- 
tains on either hand. Down through crevices in 
these mountains came, here and there, great flocks 
of "fleece" and fat cattle to the corrals beside the 
track, making, in their helpless docility, that pitiful 
appeal that some of us, at least, never escape. 
From the canyon of the Deschutes we emerged a 
little before sunset into a high, bare, flat country, 
where wheat had been. All around it purple moun- 
tains rose and, beyond, the wonderful Cascades 
glowed in the sunset light. 

At Redmond I left the train. From Redmond 
to Prineville — twenty miles — in white moonlight — 
the auto stage carried the traveler over a strange, 
high, juniper-dotted, sage-covered flat, alive with 
jack rabbits, and it was late evening when we slid 

[24] 



The New Land in Autumn 

down the precipitous winding road from the table- 
land into the valley of the Crooked River, and saw 
the lights of Prineville in its wonderfully scenic lo- 
cation, carved from the heights about it, the streets 
marked by ranks of poplar plumes, planted by seme 
far-seeing settler of an earlier day. 

Thanksgiving Day nineteen-eleven ! It should ap- 
pear In red letters in my chronicle — the day that I 
attained to El Dorado. Luminous it was, In fact, 
In Central Oregon — a glorious day. From frosty 
sunrise to frosty sunset, through all Its brief but 
brilliant hours, I rode — now on bare Rim Rock 
heights, now in the deep-cut valley of the Crooked 
River, the lofty, mirage-like Cascades behind, be- 
fore, that unknown quantity so long and vaguely 
imaged — my destined bit of the earth's crust, my 
freehold, my estate ! My guide, the locator, was an 
interesting young engineer, enthusiastic, crammed 
with the facts I wanted, human and likable. We had 
a splendid day. 

It was exclusively a live-stock country that we 
passed through. Herds of fat, white-faced cattle 
passed us, driven by scorched-looking riders. Great 
bands of sheep stirred dimly on distant slopes. In 
the river valley huge stacks of hay were already 
opened for the feeding season. Once a coyote stole 
out on a rocky promontory and watched us fear- 

[25] 



A Homesteader's Portfolio 

lessly. Ducks and geese rose from the river, jack 
rabbits jumped and jumped in the sagy borders of 
the road. 

"Bonny View," announced my guide, as a group 
of big barns and stacks and a pleasant ranch-house 
loomed before us. 'We will stop there. It is only 
five miles from your place." My place! I caught 
my breath audibly and he laughed. The Bonny 
View family were dining out, but we did justice to a 
hasty lunch set out for us by the caretaker, and then 
made all haste to reach our goal. Eagerly and 
nervously I watched the changing landscape. I had 
had a haunting fear that it would be tame. I knew 
what practical considerations would appeal to the 
locator. But it was not tame. The Maury Moun- 
tains, pine-clad and dignified, in the background, 
the abrupt, walled Rim Rock skirting the valley, the 
winding river with its alfalfa fields — but, ''That 
butte," pointing with his whip, "that is Friar Butte. 
The land I want to show you lies at the base of 
Friar Butte." I loved Friar Butte at first sight. 
In the days to come, through the doubled and re- 
doubled allowance to the homesteader, it was to 
become my own, almost entire, my upland pasture. 
Its shadow already lay across the deep wash land 
when we reached it — my fields to be. 

The spring — the sine qua non of the homesteader 
— was frozen and not flowing, but signs indicated 
that it needed but a little deepening. It has, in fact, 

[26] 




> 

O 
u 






6 
a 




3 



(^4 



The New Land in Autumn 

proved unfailing at a lower level. I felt no hesita- 
tion. It was predestined. It was mine. For the 
first time, with the butte and the Maury Mountains 
at my back, I stood beneath a cone-shaped juniper 
and looked across the still-luminous valley and the 
river to those other mountains that were for so long 
to feed my eyes with their changing colors of slaty- 
blue, rose-purple, and amethyst. This juniper, for 
its beauty, should be my dooryard tree, I decided. 
This view should name my place and the name should 
be Broadview — and so it was. 

That evening there was a neighborhood gather- 
ing at Bonny View — an old-fashioned sort of coun- 
try time that delighted my heart. It was a rare 
chance to meet my neighbors, thus happily and 
early. We played charades and ship comes in and 
tricks and then — wonder of wonders ! where were 
we anyway? — in came huge dishes of cream ice 
cream and enormous slabs of layer cake. It was 
my first but not my last taste of the hospitality of 
Bonny View. The lady of Bonny View said to me 
that she longed to see the country settle up and that 
she had found much fault with my locator in the 
past for bringing so many bachelors to their neigh- 
borhood. "But if he brings as many old maids as 
old bachelors?" I ventured, without considering the 
implication of the remark. Everybody laughed at 
my naivete, and I believe that from that moment 
dates the neighborhood choosing of bachelors for 

[27] 



A Homesteader's Portfolio 

me. But alas and alack! You may lead a horse to 
water — they have never induced their bachelors to 
drink. 

The thirty-mile return trip to PrlnevUle the next 
day served to make indelible the first impressions of 
my country. That afternoon at the land office I 
took my first lesson in land description : "The south- 
east quarter and the south half of the northeast 
quarter and the lot one — Section Four, Township 
Seventeen, Range Nineteen East, Willamette Me- 
ridian." It was Greek to me, but on the map the 
little squares had more significance. I could almost 
locate my juniper tree. It Impressed me greatly 
that, because of the curvature of the earth's surface, 
it was not one hundred and sixty acres that I filed 
upon, but one hundred and fifty-nine and some one- 
hundredths. My papers must go to the general land 
office at The Dalles and from there I should receive 
notice that my filing had been duly allowed, after 
which the land was mine in all essentials, except that 
it could not be sold or mortgaged until all require- 
ments of residence and improvement should have 
been fulfilled and title won, three years hence. 



[28] 



V 

THE NEW LAND IN SPRING 

It was spring In Umatilla. The fragrance of the 
peach groves was a thing of the past, and little green 
spheres hung thick among the luxuriant foliage, but 
the air was heavy with the breath of sweet clover 
and alfalfa that billowed up to the very doors of 
the little homes of the Project and rolled across the 
thoroughfares, and stood knee-deep in the fields 
ready for the first harvest. Meadowlarks, prodi- 
gal of melody, flung their silvery challenge unceas- 
ingly skyward. 

The Pilgrim heard her name called and came out 
upon the balcony of her boarding house. The teach- 
ing winter In the Project had passed swiftly and the 
day drew near for the beginning of her residence In 
Central Oregon. 

"Put on your hat, Miss Andromeda. I want to 
take you to the Agriculturists' banquet. I want you 
to write it up for me. And, first. Til take you a 
joy-ride to put you in the mood. Give you twenty 
minutes." (This to the Pilgrim's plea for time.) 

It was the young newspaper editor, Yankee-born 
and college-bred, the evangelist of the Project, the 

[29] 



A Homesteader's Portfolio 

indomitable prophet of good cheer, the intrepid 
booster. 

Half an hour later, the Pilgrim tucked her sum- 
mery skirts Into the buggy and surveyed with tran- 
quil satisfaction a perfect horse In the hands of a 
skillful driver. Rhythmically they sped out of the 
little settlement to the Project "belt," the horse's 
flying hoofs thudding upon the soft roadway that 
had so lately been fathomless ash. 

"Now Pm going to take you clear 'round the 
Project," the young man explained, consulting his 
watch. "Our road is a horseshoe, you understand, 
the settlement at one end, the banquet at the other 
— twenty miles. Strictly speaking," he added, "we 
singly-blessed aren't in the festivities to-day, but 
they have to have us, you know, us advertisers. 
That's where we come In." 

"There's Judge Gary," said the Pilgrim, as a sun- 
bronzed gentleman driving a light dray, piled with 
strawberry crates, emerged from the first home- 
stead lane Into the highway. 

"Hello, Judge," hailed the young editor, pulling 
up. "How's crops?" 

"One hundred dollars clear, off my patch last 
week," smiled the Judge. "Tell that to Mr. Croaker 
back East. Henry, take this to Miss Andromeda." 
A little boy slid out of the dray and came smiling to 
his teacher. "Part of them's from my patch," he 
explained. 

[30] 



The New Land in Spring 

"Look at those strawberries," cried the Pilgrim. 
^'They're as big as eggs !" 

*'How would Homer describe them?" mused the 
Judge, feeling for a quotation. 

"I don't know," answered the Pilgrim, "I don't 
want to think about Homer. I want to think about 
new things. It'll take a brand new epic poet to tell 
about the Project." Her companion winked at the 
Judge. "Convert, all right," he commented. 

"Funny," smiled the Pilgrim, as they passed on. 
"A scholar like Judge Gary, and the most enthusi- 
astic farmer of them all!" 

"Takes brains to appreciate the situation. There 
are two of your pedagogues now." They had come 
abreast of a very new, unpainted house, on the porch 
of which two sober, middle-aged people were con- 
ducting a huge churn. They paused in their work 
for a brief greeting. "Don't forget our Decoration 
Day program, Mr. Bechtel," called the woman. 

"Both taught for twenty-five years and then put 
all they had saved in here," said the Pilgrim. 

"And a wise move, too," said Bechtel. "They're 
growing young." 

"They are," she responded. "They've got the 
Project look. It's strange, that look; It's hope, I 
suppose." 

"Yes, hope," said Bechtel, "a new beginning. *No 
matter how barren the past may have been,' some- 
thing like that. There's many a failure makes good 

[31] 



A Homesteader's Portfolio 

in the new land, many a scapegrace becomes a re- 
spected citizen." 

Homestead after homestead'sllpped past them — 
trim little bungalows, modern barns and henneries, 
blooded stock, rows and rows of beehives stocking 
up with the first alfalfa honey of the season, new or- 
chards, tiny shade trees, promising a new land in- 
deed for days to come. 

"You see," explained Bechtel, *'a project Isn't just 
like any other new farming community. They're ex- 
perienced people mostly, and people who have made 
good to some extent elsewhere. It takes money to 
begin on the Project, and the settlers Invest care- 
fully, good stock and all, you know. And taste! 
More taste in a project community than In any other 
of its size in the world. Hello, Doc! going to the 
banquet?" 

A stout man, mopping a perspiring brow, came 
down to greet them at the fence. "Boosters on the 
road early," he remarked. "Early bird catches the 
worm, eh? Confound the banquet! Of course Fm 
going. But what about Incubators, now? Two 
thousand eggs In, and temperature fluctuating these 
spring days till one can't predict anything. Gee! 
Young people," he exclaimed, looking out over the 
fields where a new alfalfa crop made green em- 
broidery on the fresh soil, "If this don't beat sitting 
in a dingy office waiting for a measles epidemic! 
What do they do it for? What does anybody do it 

[32] 



The New Land in Spring 

for? Get that egg ad in for me this week, Bechtel; 
I'm fairly snowed under with eggs, and that's a 
fact." 

On their right now was a tract of sage brush as 
yet unreclaimed by the Project ditches. Even here 
spring rioted in blue flax flowers and exquisite pink 
daisies, and little, low-growing, unknown blossoms. 
Suddenly a man stood up behind the fence on their 
left — a man with the brow of a Shakespeare, an in- 
tense poetic face. He wore blue jeans and carried a 
hoe. 

"Why, Dr. Graham," exclaimed the Pilgrim, 
*'what are you doing?" 

"Chasing the water, chasing the water. Little 
ditches will leak. But where bound? The banquet? 
I've a good mind to go along just as I am. What 
do you say, Miss Andromeda?" 

"I wouldn't advise you," laughed the Pilgrim, 
'Tm afraid of Mrs. Graham." 

But Dr. Graham proved another topic provoca- 
tive of thought. 

"A brilliant man from Union Seminary out here 
in overalls mending ditches!" 

"And why not?" urged Bechtel warmly. "Is any 
one too good to work in the ground, and hasn't he 
just as good people to preach to on a Sunday as 
he'd find anywhere?" 

"It's a wonderful little church — the only church 
IVe ever known that was really union. Denomi- 

[33] 



A Homesteader's Portfolio 

nations, creeds even, don't seem to matter at all, 
and people are alive and wide-awake and inter- 
ested." 

"Close to life? No time to speculate on another 
world?" 

"Maybe," said the Pilgrim. 

Down at the far end of the horseshoe, at the hour 
of one, assembled a numerous company. The occa- 
sion was the fifth birthday of the opening of the 
Project. It was an ideal banquet-hall — the spacious 
barn, which served temporarily as a dwelling, while 
the future home rose slowly a stone's throw away. 
If, however, the housing was primitive, there was 
nothing crude about the waiting table that groaned 
beneath the finest products of the housewife's art. 
Fine damask, egg-shell china, cut glass, and bur- 
nished silver made a fit setting for the royal feast. 
All had brought heirlooms, for what more fitting 
than that the choicest relics of the old life should 
minister to this first celebration of the new? 

They were both serious and gay, the merry- 
makers — a glad but responsible company, a pecu- 
liarly brainy and thoughtful rural gathering. Dr. 
Graham at the head, and the vigorous young school 
principal at the foot of the great table, opened and 
closed the festivities. The feast was, inevitably, 
long, and in order not to prolong it unduly, for rest- 
less custodians of calves and chickens, the toasts 
were given at intervals during the repast. 

[34] 



The New Land in Spring 

All stood for the invocation. The Pilgrim, look- 
ing up into the inspired face of the spiritual leader, 
thought suddenly of the blue jeans and the hoe. 
*'Who shall ascend into the hill of the Lord or who 
shall stand in his holy place? He that hath clean 
hands and a pure heart." It was a word of hope he 
had for them — a word of hope and of confidence. 
Why not clean hands and a pure heart? Why not 
a clean community and a record both individual 
and communal that all the world might read? In 
this free and splendid country with its simple and 
wholesome occupations, why should they fall into 
sin and iniquity? "Be ye therefore perfect even as 
your Father which Is in Heaven is perfect." 

There was a toast to the housewives who had so 
bravely borne the burdens of the pioneer, and, from 
the housewives, a gay response to the breadwinners, 
who had turned the new soil and brought forth the 
first harvest. There was a toast to the business 
enterprise and prestige of the community. To this 
the young editor responded with terse and confident 
eloquence. 

Judge Gary dwelt upon ^'Beginnings" — the map- 
ping of a new community, the laying of thorough- 
fares to be trodden by generations yet unborn, and, 
less materially, the establishing of precedents, of 
customs and traditions, for which their children 
would call them to account for good or ill. Yet his 
word also was a word of hope. Not only had the 

[35] 



A Homesteader's Portfolio 

Project prospered beyond all expectations, but their 
church, their school, founded in unity and aspiration, 
their happy social customs, of which the present oc- 
casion was\ but typical — these things they might 
well be proud to hand down as an Inheritance to 
their children. And, In closing, would not the loved 
schoolmaster, who had brought their children five 
years on their way, read again the poem with which 
he had honored the opening of the Project? 

The New Land 

So long has Nature ruled alone 
These desert spaces wild and still, 

And fire and frost and wind and wave 
Wrought here the pleasure of their will; 

While teeming life of land and sea 
In forms uncounted came and went, 

Leaving a shell, a tooth, a horn. 

To show where aeons they had spent; 

Until to-day, millenniums long. 

The land is as we now behold — 
These high, parched plains in blinding light. 

The sage brush gray, the rim rock bold; 

And desert creatures each In place — 

The leaping jack, the coyote gay. 
The sage rat, lizard, scorpion. 

The rattlesnake and bird of prey. 

Then suddenly, across the Rim, 

Man comes one day with rod and chain, 

[36] 



The New Land in Spring 

To ditch the desert, carve the road, 
And check the surface of the plain. 

So here a moment yet it hes — 

A virgin land untenanted — 
Where many mansions soon shall rise, 

Where soon a million feet shall tread. 

And Nature chaste, expectant, fair, 

Awaits her lord who is to be. 
Her little wards from bush and stone 

Peer out this being strange to see. 

What are his loves, affections, hates? 

What is his war, his government, 
His God, his Devil, what his rule 

O'er this new land, his tenement? 

In this New Land no precedent. 
No binding usage, dogma, caste, 

No stain of crime, no graft, no vice. 
No slavery to loom or last. 

O Sunshine Country, what new light 
For darker lands may rise in thee ! 

What faith, what hope, what brotherhood, 
What new ideals of equity! 

O youngest Land, so innocent. 

Some radiant angel take thy hand 

And guide thee, for thy day has dawned. 
What shalt thou be, O fair New Land? 



[37] 



VI 

INCUBATION 

During my teaching winter on the Stanfield Pro- 
ject, my nearest associate among the teachers was 
a Dakota girl of Bohemian parentage. Her parents 
had been among those old-country adventurers who 
had risked everything on the American experiment 
and had made good. They had chosen as the first 
fruits of their good fortune the thorough education 
of their children. My friend's brother had cast his 
lot in the Hermiston Project only a few miles from 
Stanfield and she herself had bought a relinquish- 
ment there, on which she slept once a week during 
the teaching term. It became a custom for me to 
spend an occasional week-end with her there and 
to witness In the activities of the young couple — 
her brother and his wife — the weary and endless 
labors, the adaptations, the privations and hard- 
ships, the soaring hopes and the repressed despairs 
of the beginning homesteader. 

It was through their generous sympathy with my 
own plans that I obtained, during my last month on 
the Project, the loan of an Incubator and, at a mar- 
velously low price, something over a hundred thor- 

[38] 



Incubation 

oughbred White Leghorn eggs. This was my very 
first step in an independent agricultural career and 
I took it with tremendous seriousness. Not only 
was it the first business venture, but I felt a deep 
maternal responsibility for the multitudinous little 
life entities that it lay in my power to kindle. 

I am sure that my normal temperature became, 
for the classic three weeks' period, one hundred and 
three degrees. My testing incubator hand became 
as sensitive as the thermometer. Lacking the de- 
sirable basement for the machine, I became keenly 
aware of all weather changes, but regarded them as 
significant only as they tended to run the tempera- 
ture up or down in that dark and dreamy chamber 
crowded with nascent existences. Daily I turned 
the white eggs with tender anticipation. I was re- 
duced to despair when an egg dropped from my 
hand and a little live embryo floundered helplessly 
in the released albumen. 

Unforgettable is that night of the cold snap when 
I woke from prolonged slumber and, anxiously seek- 
ing the incubator, found the mercury low in the 
nineties and steadily sinking. I put on all steam but 
still it fell. Frantically I built a fire and introduced 
pans of hot water above and below the eggs. The 
quicksilver was now out of sight. It is characteris- 
tic of an incubator thermometer to continue indefi- 
nitely in the direction in which it has got a start. 
After ages of waiting it appeared again. Very 

[39] 



A Homesteader's Portfolio 

slowly and llngerlngly it slid upward, and, some time 
in the next forenoon, stood once more at one hun- 
dred and three. I cherished small hope and my sky 
was darkened. 

Next came that sudden heat wave. I had ven- 
tured on an excursion that took me several miles 
from home. Returned, I flew to the incubator. I 
annihilated the brightly burning flame. I stared 
stupidly at the thermometer. It didn't seem to reg- 
ister at all! Tardily I realized that the mercury 
was now out of sight — no telling how far — above 
one hundred ten ! I was vanquished then, down and 
out? Still, I took out the tray of eggs and set it 
upon cool, wet towels. I laid cool, wet towels upon 
the eggs. Inwardly sobbing, I awaited the pleasure 
of Mercury, wishing that the whimsical onlooker 
would depart and allow me to bawl ! 

Still I pursued my hopeless round on the bare 
chance that, even after the chill and the cremation, 
some sparks of life might survive. On the evening 
of the nineteenth day, as I was performing my daily 
duty to the machine, I was arrested by a faint but 
vigorous hail. Bird, mouse, or cricket? I stayed 
my hand in wonder. Then, from directly beneath 
that hand, it came again — a chirp, this time pierc- 
ing and insistent. An egg was "pipped" ! The next 
morning, a weak and draggled pioneer had success- 
fully arrived and lay weak and panting on the warm 
eggs. The whole chamber was alive with peeps and 

[40] 



Incubation 

tappings. To my resuscitated hopes every egg was 
cracked. By night, the machine resembled nothing 
so much as a corn popper at Its crisis. Brisk snap- 
plngs, momentary evolutions, and first shrill cries of 
protest against the hardships of existence continued 
into the small hours. I oscillated feverishly be- 
tween my couch and this cradle of a feathered brood. 
On the final morning, the sun being well up and 
chill departed, I tremblingly approached the ma- 
chine with carefully lined and padded basket. 
Stooping to turn the little buttons that hold the 
door, I became aware of three brand-new personali- 
ties, attired in softest cream-colored down, standing 
observantly together at the little round window at 
the front, and regarding me sagely with the bright- 
est of black eyes. Within was a seething multitude, 
soft as thistle down, beautiful as flowers. I still 
trembled as I lifted to the new nest the spry and dry 
and fit, counting them meanwhile. A tardy minority 
must remain in the incubator for a little further 
maturing and polishing off. By night I had them 
all out — a three-fourths hatch, a contented, whisper- 
ing, cuddling, exquisite possession. This my chilled 
and roasted brood — my forlorn hope 1 



[41] 



VII 

THE LIFE OF THE PIONEERS 

Probably as early as 1875 it had become a mat- 
ter of knowledge to settlers on the border, that the 
high, dry plains and mountains of Central Oregon 
would maintain stock, and that, given sufficient area, 
the sparse bunch grass would furnish flesh as hard 
and firm as would the grass of the mid-west prai- 
ries. With the minimum of feeding in the winter 
season, the major portion of a herd would pull 
through from spring to spring. Of the minority 
who perished miserably in the late and early snows 
or in the drought of summer, since the survivors 
yielded a reasonable pecuniary profit, little account 
was taken. This is human if not humane. 

Fully forty years ago, then, the covered wagon, 
containing a sufficiently complete equipment for one 
human family for an entire year, and a little 
*'bunch" of stock — the nucleus of the herd-to-be — 
became a familiar spectacle in the streets of The 
Dalles, as they set forth upon a pilgrimage of 
from two to three hundred miles into the wilderness. 
Arrived at their destination, in the little valley of 
one of the infrequent streams, men and women side 

[42] 



The Life of the Pioneers 

by side hewed logs and whip-sawed lumber for the 
new home, dug post-holes and erected fences and 
broke soil for the little crop of rye that was to be 
the winter's safeguard for the stock. 

Women bore children apologetically in those days, 
because of the drawback to the all-engrossing work 
in hand, but bore them and raised them, too, for if it 
was a land without luxuries, it was also a land with- 
out disease. Children grew inevitably to stalwart 
maturity. They endured hardship, those pioneers, 
but still more did they endure privation, for the 
nearest market was distant two hundred miles and 
human calculation at the best is not infallible. Milk, 
butter, and eggs, somehow, somewhy, are always 
rare luxuries in a stock country, but to these people, 
upon occasion, flour, salt, sugar, and soap became 
superfluous. The stock throve, and, once a year, 
the man or men of the family group made the return 
trip to the railroad, taking a bunch of fattened 
steers and bringing back an ever-increasing supply 
of family comforts. 

There were always neighbors, though far-distant. 
No one settled In the country quite out of touch with 
human kind. Perhaps a whole generation grew up 
guiltless of schoolroom vices, but in time came the 
log schoolhouse, and with it, the neighborhood 
gathering — the Christmas tree, the basket social, 
the dance, the candy pull, the picnic, and the "speak- 
ing." Anything beyond these even now belongs to 

[43] 



A Homesteader's Portfolio 

the catalogue of those things of which the popula- 
tion have "never heerd," and savors of evil. 

"Eats" In this land of large exertion and large 
appetites played the larger role. The basket social, 
from simple beginnings, evolved Into a veritable 
Babylonian feast, contained in astounding funereal 
monuments of crepe paper and paper flowers. Even 
at the present day, the tenderfoot who presumes to 
"charge for a program" without "eats" will reap 
the ignominy of the unlnltlate. The gallant who 
will unhesitatingly produce a five dollar bill for an 
ornate and spicy basket will refuse fifty cents for a 
program. Wild horses will not drag it from him. 

It was an unchurched population. Men brought 
with them denominational traditions, and occasional 
missionaries — Methodist, Baptist, Presbyterian, 
Disciples — stimulated the inevitable "wrastling" 
over predestination, baptism, the vices of cards and 
the dance, and the doctrine of sanctlficatlon. If 
one strolled In among them unprotected by one of 
the well-known brands of spiritual armor, he be- 
came at once "the 'in-H-del/ '* and a mark for darts 
from every camp. 

The moral law suffered liberal interpretation and 
was enforced by the ever-present firearm and the 
eye-for-eye and tooth-for-tooth acceptance. Drinking 
was almost universal, and drinking to excess not 
uncommon. Strays from the fold of chastity were 
many, and, having fed the fires of gossip for a brief 

[44] 



The Life of the Pioneers 

season, were tolerated and their sins condoned. Ex- 
treme physical exertion at one season was offset by 
much Inertia at another, and unusual or unseasonable 
effort was not to be thought of. 

There were well-defined lines of nelghborllness. 
There was always a place at the table and a quilt 
for the night for the transient. When desired, 
goods would be brought along the highway for the 
requesting neighbor, but and If this neighbor, 
through one misfortune or another, were unable to 
call for them, on the highway they would remain, 
were they the very necessities of Hfe. Perhaps be- 
cause of the strenuous Independence forced upon 
each pioneer family, obligations of service to others 
came to be little recognized. The newcomer might 
remain Indefinitely beneath the old settler's roof, but 
he might look far and long for help In erecting the 
new rooftree or In breaking the soil. 

Toward other species than the human, principle 
and practice were hard and rigorous. Exploitation 
for human profit was the only recognized use of 
"the beasts that perish" and a naive astonishment 
greeted any other viewpoint. Hunting and trapping 
were the pastimes of the winter season, and killing 
was the appropriate human reaction to the phenom- 
ena of animate existence. 



[45] 



VIII 

"and the evening and the morning were the 

FIRST day" 

On the evening of the twentieth to the twenty- 
first of June, on the high, Central-Oregon plateau, 
there was well-nigh no intermission between twi- 
lights. White daylight faded out and sifted in 
again Imperceptibly among the stars, and the longest 
day of the year began almost literally at midnight. 
Scattered over the vast sagebrush reaches, cattle 
awoke and stirred after brief dozing, nibbling at 
the tender bunch grass. Rabbits scarcely ceased 
their leaping from cover to cover. Coyotes 
mixed their vesper and matin rhapsodies, and the 
infrequent birds hovered their young for a brief 
hour or two and returned to the chase. East of the 
Crooked River, the bare, clear-cut mountain range 
grew slaty-blue against a golden sky. The air was 
crystalline in Its purity. On the western side of the 
river and over against the mountain range, at the 
summit of a long slope of wash land and at the base 
of an aggressive butte, beneath the dense boughs 
of a cone-shaped juniper, a solitary human being had 
kept watch-night unwinkingly. 

[46] 



"Evening and Morning Were the First Day" 

From beneath the incubus of civihzatlon rises, 
every now and again, In the breast of one human 
being or another, the protesting spirit of the cave 
man. Even the cave woman, though at more Infre- 
quent intervals, asserts herself. Behold then, on this 
morning of the twenty-first of June, nineteen-twelve, 
one in the clutches of this obsessing demon of the 
cave woman — one whom the demon has driven 
forth, like King Nebuchadnezzar, from the haunts 
of men, to make her home with the beasts of the 
field, and to be wet with the dew of heaven till 
three times shall pass over. The Pilgrim, on this 
fateful morning, began her homestead residence. 

At about five o'clock on the previous afternoon, 
the last faint rumble of the retreating wagon had 
fallen upon the Pilgrim's ear as something signifi- 
cant and epochal. Fifty miles to westward passed 
the nearest railroad line; one hundred and fifty 
miles to eastward the next nearest. Northward and 
southward the distance was so great as to be non- 
negotiable. On every hand, high, dry, and untamed, 
stretched the Central-Oregon plateau. Richly tim- 
bered mountains and deep river clefts made occa- 
sional dots and lines upon Its vastness. No human 
habitation was in sight. Overhead, the dense fo- 
liage of a symmetrical juniper tree preserved a 
fresh coolness of shade from the brooding heat of 
the June day. 

Under the Pilgrim's hand a shaggy brown dog, 

[47] 



A Homesteader's Portfolio 

absolutely relaxed, rested from the weary exertions 
of his long journey. Behind her her trunk stood 
on end and against it leaned a tent rolled and 
strapped. She had just opened a series of three 
splint baskets fastened on a rod, and now on every 
hand, leaping, running, flying, springing into the air 
to clap ecstatic wings, chirping a babel of wild de- 
light, ninety balls of straw-colored down — potential 
White Leghorn fowls, just four days out of incu- 
bator — celebrated their freedom. Nine months be- 
fore, the Pilgrim had stood in a palatial waiting 
room in New York City, buying her ticket for Port- 
land. Now she was at home. One hundred and 
sixty acres lying about her were already entered in 
her name on Uncle Sam's records. Tent and trunk 
and downy flock were house and barn and blooded 
stock In embryo. ^'Chickens and wheat" she had 
decided when she staked the claim. Hence the now- 
liberated occupants of the three splint baskets. 

On this first morning of homestead residence I 
had barely had time to wash my face at the spring 
and prepare my first cup of campfire coffee when 
two young bachelors. Grant Fadden and John 
Porter, arrived to stretch my tent. They brought a 
pail of warm milk. One of them was a beginning 
homesteader himself, and had a fellow feeling. 
They were exceedingly helpful in giving me my 
bearings and certain essential information that I 
should very soon require, as well as In setting up 

[48] 



^'Evening and Morning Were the First Day" 

this my first shelter under the Central Oregon 
heavens. Everybody knew by phone that I had 
arrived and my first callers were not out of sight 
before others began to arrive. Three families of 
old residents — my near neighbors, into whose im- 
memorial pasture my filings had intruded — paid 
their respects. It amuses me at this distance to 
picture what must have been the contrast between 
my unguarded and interrogative innocence and their 
shrewd reserve. What foundations were laid for 
future relations may easily be conjectured. One 
neighbor engaged offhand to break my first twenty 
acres "at the 'going' price" as soon as he should 
have broken a young horse for which he was about 
to go to the mountain. Another promised to haul 
the lumber for my tent house, since he must haul 
some for himself before threshing time and could 
make one job of it. 

To inquiries regarding a more immediate need I 
obtained no response. All of my simple camp fur- 
nishings, including cot and chairs, were now at the 
post office four miles distant. Could my neighbors 
suggest how I might get them hauled? I did not 
allow my eyes to stray in the direction of the three 
teams tied In the offing. In response to this query 
my callers exchanged glances of puzzled considera- 
tion. They could think of no way in which the feat 
could be accomplished. Nothing could have been 
more typical of a certain phase of the *'01d Ore- 

[49] 



A Homesteader's Portfolio 

gonian'* than these easy promises as to the future, 
this absolute unresponse as to the present. When 
my guests had withdrawn at the approach of dinner 
time, I stirred myself to gather juniper boughs for 
a temporary couch. On this couch I was destined 
to enjoy precarious slumber for one month, until at 
length a passing wagon, going to the mountain for 
wood, left my freight at my door. 

Pilot Butte — a solitary, towering butte to the 
north of me — fulfilled the promise of its name in 
becoming my guide to the store and post office, three 
and a half miles distant as the crow flies. Within 
my first week was inaugurated that pilgrimage that, 
during the seasons following, made me familiar with 
every rise and fall, every tree and stone of the sage- 
brush tracts intervening between my tent and Uncle 
Sam's station. During that week also began my 
experience as a beast of burden. My carrying power 
came in time to be about forty pounds, and unlimited 
experiment proved the shoulders to be the normal 
resting place for a load that must be carried a 
goodly distance. Dawn, noonday, twilight, and 
white moonlight looked down upon these pilgrim- 
ages, and always beside the solitary human, with 
many a digression in pursuit of jack rabbits, frisked 
and twinkled and exulted the brown shadow, the 
inseparable companion, the dog of dogs. All sum- 
mer I cooked on a campfire, for which I gathered 
rotting sagebrush and dead purshia, pleasing my- 

[50] 



"Evening and Morning Were the First Day" 

self with the reflection that this was all in the way 
of clearing the fields where wheat was to wave the 
coming season. 

Two nights at the very beginning of this summer^s 
tenting were not without incident. On the third 
night of my residence, a brilliant moonlight night, 
my tent flaps having been left wide open to let the 
night air In, something waked me at about two 
o'clock. I lay for some moments with eyes closed, 
altogether unapprehensive. Then a loud thud close 
at hand startled both eyes and ears wide open. 
There In the white moonlight, directly in front of 
the tent, stood a saddled horse! Maybe I didn't 
know, after that, what it is to have a real chill and 
rising hair I I reached for my gun, which was close 
at hand and loaded, got It Into position, and awaited 
developments. Well, hours went by while I lay 
there motionless. At length the horse deliberately 
moved away and I Inadvertently fell asleep. In the 
morning the horse was feeding on the butte side, and 
toward noon his owner came for him, having lost 
him while following up some stock on foot the day 
before. 

For several evenings after my arrival I had 
listened to distant sounds that seemed like nothing 
but the shouts of boys on a ball field. So many 
things were new that I did not concern myself un- 
duly with this unexplained phenomenon. At an 
early date, however, soon after bedtime, there sud- 

[51] 



A Homesteader's Portfolio 

denly arose, as if from the very ground beneath 
me, such a chorus of howls and yelps that I sprang 
to my feet in panic. Bingo, to whom fear was al- 
ways unknown, was in the thick of the powwow at 
once, but presently came racing back with a big co- 
yote at his heels. Once on his own ground, he 
turned again and became the pursuer. And thus 
they had it back and forth till, in terror for fear he 
might be killed, I fired my gun into the air. Dead 
silence succeeded, but an hour later our visitor re- 
turned with reinforcements and, sitting out in the 
shadowy environs, proceeded to make night hideous 
and to challenge my infuriated but now enchained 
protector to come out and be devoured. 

On one of these June mornings, as I sat under 
my juniper, came a rapid rider on a mettlesome 
horse. He proved to be John Porter and explained 
that his sister Mary, a homestead spinster like my- 
self, had sent the horse with an invitation to spend 
the day with her. He himself was going to Ben 
Franklin^s, just around the butte, to help out in the 
building of a barn. All of them were new settlers 
from the Middle West, he explained. They would 
be glad if they could be of service to me now and 
then. They knew the difficulties. (Little did I 
know from what pitfalls they would rescue me and 
in what crises they would redeem the promise.) 
DeHghted, I left my little biddies with some mis- 
giving and, letting out my eager horse, who wanted 

[S2] 



^'Evening and Morning Were the First Day" 

only an excuse to run home again at top speed, I 
came into Mary Porter's dooryard after a three- 
mile race with Bingo, like John Gilpin on his homing 
steed. 

In a little hip-roofed shack, as neat as wax, Mary 
was paring potatoes from their spring-irrigated gar- 
den. This shack was her brother John's, she ex- 
plained, and just around the bend of the hill, in an 
aspen grove, was hers. They slept beneath their 
own rooftrees, and ate now here, now there. Mary 
was full of kindly and helpful gossip about men and 
things. All is not gold that glitters, she reminded 
me, and one might well take one's time in choosing 
one's friends and placing one's trust. The bloom 
was already off the "Old Oregonian" for Mary. 
She was so sensible, so canny, I had a lovely day and 
another Gilpin-like ride home at sunset and a chat 
with John Porter returning from his building. I 
was interested in all of Mary's ingenious ways of 
managing in our primitive situation. She was most 
practical and wide-awake. She had one great ad- 
vantage over me — a brother on the ground. 



[S3] 



IX 

WHITE LEGHORNS 

Around my one hundred incubator chicks — the 
one materialized hope of my adventure — centered 
all the experiences of that first summer. From my 
journal I take a short essay on their engaging quali- 
ties: 

"The little Leghorn has a brief infancy. At the 
age of two days the sprouting of the feathered wing 
is an accomplished fact, and, at two weeks, it has 
become a pearly shield covering the entire side — 
lustrous as a shell, exquisite in tint and curve. Else- 
where the straw-colored down persists, only gradu- 
ally yielding to the coming plumage, till at six weeks 
the little head alone has the creamy hue, and at two 
months I have a flock of snow-white doves — for the 
Leghorn is in fact more bird than fowl, this early 
and excessive development of wing indicating special 
powers of aviation. Like the subject of the old 
1 * 'in, the Leghorn 'would rather fly than go.' 
-^ watch a Leghorn hen take an eight-foot fence at 
standing flight or sail over a good portion of a block 
to reach a desired feeding ground. 

[54] 



White Leghorns 

"In considering the beauty of the Httle wings, one 
recalls that the progenitors of these chicks inhabited 
a land of art called Italy, and one wonders if, for 
certain cherubic appendages, Michael and Raphael 
and the rest may not have impressed a little flock 
of feathered models to serve at the point where the 
human infant lacked a limb. 

"It is this light and flitting and birdlike quality that 
is, to me, one of the chief attractions of my flock, 
though I realize that to the fleshly eye that sees a 
chicken always in the shadow of the dinner pot, or 
in its extreme youth regards it as *a little fry,' 
there are serious disqualifications. In fact one 
would not keep a Leghorn for a market fowl, al- 
though at six months, given a contented and well- 
fed youth, the result is a very delicate and suffi- 
ciently plump little body. 

"Because of the temporary absence of my spacious 
farm buildings, and because of prowling coyotes, two 
of whom backed my vahant, brown defender to the 
very door of the tent one night, the chicks must be 
accommodated in a front corner of my tent. 

"At about half past two in this latitude on these 
midsummer mornings, appears the first faint glim- 
mering on the horizon. At about the same time 
comes the first premonitory chirp from my little dor- 
mitory. It is answered sleepily and there is perhaps 
a third. 

"Number One, *Isn't it mornmg?' 

[55] 



A Homesteader's Portfolio 

"Number Two, 'Is It? It isn't possible !' 

"Number Three, to whom words suggest instant 
action, 'Let's see.' He pokes his head under the 
curtain. 'Yes, there Is the morning star.' 

"Numbers Four, Five and Six (sleepy heads from 
the rear corners), 'Sh-sh-sh!' 

"That breath of air that followed Number 
Three's head Into the dormitory was certainly chill. 
So everybody settles down for another nap. 

"Twenty minutes pass. The horizon has become 
faintly golden. Objects have become dimly dis- 
cernible; the breath of morning moves. 

"Number One wakes suddenly and cries out, 
'Why, did you go to sleep?' 

"Number Two, 'Did you?' 

"Number Three, 'It's surely morning now!' He 
creeps out from under the curtain. Others follow, 
slowly, cautiously, peering around, with stretched 
necks. (Chickens see poorly In dim light.) I can 
barely see them, like little shadow chicks, stealing 
about on the feeding ground in front of the tent, 
pecking tentatively here and there for seeds, seeking 
the water pan. This at least they can see. This 
little party Is only the advance guard — the hardy 
pioneers. Two thirds of the flock remain warmly 
content In the dormitory. In a moment back they 
come, more hurriedly than they went out, and cud- 
dle ecstatically in the warm interior, with many a 

156] 



-iaffttlfik 



t 



.^^.i^^fimm^i^^ * 






^mmm^i 




White Leghorns — Enjoying a Winter in Town 



White Leghorns 

congratulatory expression : 'Oh, how good it feels !' 
'Isn't it cosy?' 'How cold the ground was!' 

"Another half hour. The east is golden orange, 
flaming, wonderful. The hills above it are clear- 
cut and slaty-blue. The thread of a moon hangs 
like a jewel In the high heaven. There is a sudden, 
tumultuous leaping to life in the dormitory, wide- 
awake shrill chirpings, jostllngs. The curtain flies 
open before the turbulent throng. Out they come 
— jumping, flying, shrilly piping, leaping Into the 
air, and madly clapping their birdlike wings. One 
division storms the fountain; another makes a rush 
for the sagebrush; the majority scatter over the 
feeding ground. In five minutes they are all gone — 
scattered over three or four acres — ferociously 
hunting the early worm, the sleeping grasshopper, 
the unwary beetle, and the sluggish fly. 

"By eight o'clock, when my arduous daily labors 
are consummated, and I come out under the juniper 
with book or pen, they are a weary band of hunters, 
and return to perch about me in the juniper branches, 
to cuddle in the deep needle-bed, and above all, to 
drink and drink and drink again. They are delighted 
with the presence of Mother Hen, and vie with one 
another in securing the nearest branches, and in 
cuddling close about her skirts and feet — a twitter- 
ing, sociable little company. One and another indi- 
vidual whom I begin to recognize jumps upon my 

[57] 



A Homesteader's Portfolio 

knee, or places himself before me in a conspicuous 
attitude, hoping to be taken up. 

"It is one of our stupidest traditions that feathered 
creatures lack susceptibility to affection, and are 1 

without intelligence. Truth is, if we have not ob- 
tained reaction here it is because we have not acted. 
The tenderest, most ethereal caress I have ever 
known was that of a ring-dove, and a petted fowl 
will lay its velvet cheek to yours with whispered 
phrases of endearment that can hardly be outdone. 

"For a short season, rest beneath the juniper tree 
is profound. Then, suddenly, some leading spirit 
utters a shrill signal and takes wing. Instantly, the 
whole flock is up and away with a rush of wings, 
skimming over the sagebrush slopes like the white 
doves that they resemble. 

"This program of alternate hunting and resting is 
carried on throughout the day, except that there is 
a prolonged rest, with only tentative sallies into the 
sunshine, during the heat of the early afternoon. 
At this hour, I bring out my rug, for it is already a 
long time since two-thirty in the morning. The 
brown dog digs his hollow in the juniper needles and 
settles himself with a deep-drawn sigh. And we 
sleep — the ninety-odd of us — long and deep, in the 
sweet freshness of juniper shade and high plateau. 

"About four o'clock, a breeze springs up. The day 
is at once distinctly cooler. New life and impulses 
seize upon us, and we — the feathered ones — are off 

[58] 



White Leghorns 

again, to wander far and long this tirne, till twilight 
drives us llngerlngly home. And as in the morning 
we arose repeatedly, so at night, we must frequently 
retire between seven and eight-thirty, rising again 
and sallying forth with twittering flights and flutter- 
ings, only complete darkness finally determining our 
permanent occupation of the dormitory. 

*'One little fellow prowls alone, till, sudden terror 
of the falling night overtaking him, he flies shrieking 
into my hands, and cuddles there with gradually 
abating sobs, for all the world like a terrified child. 

''For a long time there are chirpings in the dormi- 
tory: 

'' 'Do you remember that black beetle that was so 
hard to crack?' 

" 'What about the green lizard that / caught?' 

" 'You didn't hold him, though.' 

" 'Bet you I will next time.' 

"Sleepy-heads, 'sh-sh-sh!' 

" 'What about the sour milk the neighbor brought 
us?' 

"'Fine!' 'Fine!' 'Fine!' 

" 'Sh-sh-sh I' 

"This is all until two-thirty, except pulling up the 
blankets one by one in the icy night, and hanging 
extra covers over the dormitory. 

"On my fair and open hillside, in the white light 
of these days, the twin tragedies of hfe and death 
are infinitely enacted. Millions of tiny creatures 

[59] 



A Homesteader's Portfolio 

rise out of oblivion, chirp, pipe, trill, squeak, rasp 
their brief note of jubilation, and pass, writhing and 
protesting, into oblivion again. 

''The most minute victim of my downy and vora- 
cious horde is a tiny fly that haunts the sagebrush, 
and whose incubators I suppose to be the fruit-like 
growth upon the branches. The little fly swarms in 
the leaves, and the devouring host swarms in the 
branches, as contentedly picking and eating as chil- 
dren on a huckleberry excursion. Who knows what 
fateful devastation of the sagebrush may be thus 
averted? 

"Huge anthills, knee-high, are objects of interest, 
but the ants do not commend themselves as food, 
and I doubt whether they can be eaten with im- 
punity. 

"The common locust leaves his shell in great num- 
bers on the juniper bark, and creeps forth in fair 
maiden-armor, only to be seized by a foe hardly 
larger and much more tender than himself. There- 
upon the enraged captive buzzes most terribly; the 
panic-stricken captor shrieks and rushes hither and 
yon, doing everything but release his prey. Eighty- 
nine chicks close in behind iiim, and the battle and 
the chase rage up and down and in and out, till, the 
original captor being overcome and robbed, or, the 
locust being reduced by mouthfuls snatched from 
either side, the buzzing and the skirmishing are 

[60] 



White Leghorns 

gradually abated, and the whole troop retire for a 
much-needed rest. 

"Field mice have hidden many a nest hereabout. 
In due time the pink, defenceless Infants seek the 
light and fall victims in their turn to this new and 
unknown scourge that recently descended between 
the dawn and dark of a summer's day. A mouse is 
a dainty but difficult morsel. The hide Is tough and 
cannot be broken. The approved method Is to 
hammer the contents to a jelly and then elongate the 
body by successive attempted swallowlngs (each 
chick doing his part) till, after prodigious efforts, 
some well-grown and Samsonian Individual lands it 
successfully at the goal. But woe unto him in whose 
throat it remains as a cork, for he shall presently 
be found stiff and lifeless, with a pink tail protrud- 
ing from his bill. 

''Little gray and blue lizards are much more ten- 
der, and the limbs may be dislocated and passed 
around. Tree toads and frogs are contraband, if, 
in migration, they should cross our high, dry field. 

"Rattlesnakes are worthy of a complete line-up of 
forces — a fearsome, neck-stretching array, trilling 
their note of warning, till Mother Hen comes with 
the ax and performs the ceremony of decapitation, 
after which the body, having been slit open, becomes 
the occasion for a great barbecue and a powwow 
much prolonged. 

[6i] 



A Homesteader's Portfolio 

"And when the neighbor-boy brings rabbits, a 
great bunch of them, furry little devastators of the 
fields — and Mother Hen skins them and hangs them 
about in the sagebrush, oh then the singing and the 
squawking, the gorging and rejoicing, and the gory, 
gory, plumage of the snowy flock!" 

As in all Nature, so here, the preyer must be 
preyed upon. On the morning after my arrival in 
the new land, as I sat beneath the juniper, a grace- 
ful, red-brown bird, a little larger than a robin, with 
curved wings and hooked beak, alighted above my 
head. I drove him away (reluctantly) on the evi- 
dence of the hooked beak. Bird of ill-omen and 
precursor of much disaster! During this season 
and the following, I was to feed eighty plump thor- 
oughbreds to him and his kind. 

They came — the hawks — in greater and greater 
numbers, as the report of the happy hunting ground 
went forth — bird hawks and chicken hawks, perch- 
ing hawks and soaring hawks, brown, black, and 
mottled hawks. They soared at all hours in the 
blue heavens above; they perched on the high butte 
side and spied upon us unwinkingly. They knew 
when I went to the spring; they knew the hours when 
I was busiest in the tent; they knew when I had not 
yet arisen; they knew — oh, scores of them knew — 
when I went to pay a call or to the post office. I 
grew sadly accustomed to the testimony of scattered 

[62] 



White Leghorns 

white feathers and a little foot or two. Twice I 
have seen a treasured pet carried skyward, while 
threats and chasing and hullabaloo proved unavail- 
ing. An old shotgun scared away untold numbers, 
but failed. In my hands, to bring them down. Only 
a change of location, at a later date, proved effective 
in lessening these depredations. 

Just after the Leghorn chapter in my Journal, I 
find some notes on the general situation: 

"And what of the human atom — a microscopic 
dot on the vastness of the wilderness ? In the long, 
still days beneath the juniper comes the demon of 
the crystal desert. He squats before me and looks 
me in the eyes. 'Well,' he says, 'the days of a man's 
life are three score years and ten and you are getting 
on. What do you think of life on the whole? How 
have you made it — you and life? How do you in- 
tend to deal with him the second half? Who are 
you anyway? What are you in reality, away from 
all association and restraint? No precedents here, 
no dogma, no pride, no convention, nothing to live 
up to or down to now.' 

" 'Smooth out those lines that weKe for other 
people — that smirk that was for Madam Blank, who 
held an exalted and erroneous opinion of your 
character; that seraphic smile that was for your 
zealous Christian Science friends; that furrow that 
was Professor What's-HIs-Name, interested in your 

[63] 



A Homesteader's Portfolio 

mental processes; that humility that was generated 
in a Presbyterian cradle; that dignity that asserted 
and sought to sustain all sorts of things; that serene 
indifference that you visit upon your gentlemen 
friends. No good now to smirk or frown or pout. 
I see through you. Be a child again — a child of 
the desert. See, hear, feel, think, love, desire, be- 
lieve! What is your religion — yours really? What 
are your opinions on the big themes? What in- 
spires your spontaneous emotions? Who are you, 
anyway ?' 

"Sometimes he comes at night when I have pulled 
my cot out under the blazing stars. 'Well,' he says, 
'what of the ideals that you confided to those stars 
twenty years ago? What have you done about 
them? Are they still yours? Are they workable?' 

'At other times that old demon of agriculture, 
whom we all inherit, takes possession. He waves 
his hand and, lo, a golden wheat field where the 
sagebrush flourishes unchallenged. He points out 
my fertile garden and my alfalfa field, the little 
home I am to build, the lines of my fences, my 
pasture with its Jerseys and its Hamiltonians. He 
sets me to digging and hoeing at a furious rate, and 
to planning those larger operations that will call for 
men and teams. 

"Inconveniences? Ah, perhaps. Thirty miles to 
nearest market; four miles to wayside store and post 
oflice. Uncle Sam having failed to furnish a horse 

[64] 



White Leghorns 

with the homestead, all necessaries to be borne on 
back, a la the old woman of the mountains. All 
water to be carried one eighth of a mile up hill; all 
wood to be sought and chopped; all cooking to be 
done on camp fire In the midst of my harpy throng. 

"I have crossed the Rubicon. On the thither side 
He fifteen years of ardent schoolroom life, rows 
upon rows of little desks, the dally tension, the rigid 
schedule, principals amiable and crabbed, superin- 
tendents broadmlnded and arbitrary, school boards 
enlightened and Ignorant, varying community re- 
quirements, social conservatisms, religious bigotries. 

"For three years no binding contracts, no hours to 
keep, no patrons to please, no customs with which 
to conform, no conventionalities to respect, no 
standards to measure up to, no Mrs. Grundy to 
conciliate! 

"Three years of one's own — Infinite space In 
which to move, Infinite freedom in which to think, 
to feel, to love, to act." 

Do I look behind with wistful and vain regret? 
I withhold reply. 



[.^s^ 



X 

ACQUAINTANCE 

This first summer on the homestead was, by 
comparison with those that followed, an idle sum- 
mer. June, in that dry clime, is too late for garden 
operations and I lacked material for such edifices 
as I might have been working at. Trips to the 
store and post office, wood-getting, water-carrying, 
and my primitive housekeeping afforded plenty of 
exercise and I took many a trip of exploration among 
the buttes and the sagebrush fields. 

My neighbors still promised to bring the lumber 
for my tent house, but the expedition was put off 
from week to week. A chicken hou&e, however, I 
devised and, before the first frost, had the flock 
cosily stowed away. I made a dugout on the south 
side of the steep ridge that bordered my field, built 
up the walls with juniper trunks of which I cut more 
than fifty from the fields first to be cleared, roofed 
the whole with the same, and put a window in the 
front. A wired run, closed over the top, completed 
a hennery that, for the first time, afforded security 
in my absence. The dugout I would not now recom- 
mend. It was somewhat damp and I lay the first 

[66] 



Acquaintance 

appearance of any form of disease In the flock to 
this winter housing. 

I found much time for meditation beneath the 
juniper. Here I jotted down the first impressions 
of this new life, from which I draw from time to 
time in making up my narrative. 

Acquaintances increased. On my second Sunday, 
as I sat beneath the juniper, busy with letters, two 
equestriennes crossed the sagebrush flat, drew up 
and dismounted, and introduced themselves as "The 
Nash Girls." Children of early settlers with ideals 
and energy, they live with brothers on the old home- 
stead, though each of the large family has used his 
homestead right, linking together a series of valu- 
able tracts which they administer together in the 
interest of stock-raising. A most comforting friend- 
ship had its inception on this Sunday afternoon. It 
marked the beginning of a thoughtful neighborll- 
ness without which I should hardly have weathered 
the blast. 

Not many days later I climbed to the summit of 
Friar Butte and located a poplar grove which they 
had described to me. Taking my bearings from 
this, I slid down the precipitous thither side, made 
my way through or around ditched fields of knee- 
deep alfalfa, but not until I was within a stone's 
throw was I in any degree prepared for the oasis of 
the yard — a beautiful lawn, shaded by old poplars, 
and walled by a blazing defense of sweet peas. I 

[67] 



A Homesteader's Portfolio 

almost cried out. I was already wonted to the dry 
and scanty growth of the sagebrush country. It 
was haying time and the first-cut fields were beau- 
tiful with dome-shaped cocks, the warm fragrance 
from which was almost overpowering. 

The girls invested me with an apron and gave me 
a pan of green apples to prepare for sauce while 
they, quick and efficient, got ready the haying 
dinner. We had a jolly company at dinner and 
some good talk spiced with fun, for they are emi- 
nently a joking family. I mentioned my plan of ex- 
perimenting with bees, and said that I believed that 
when the purshia ceased blooming they would get 
over the top of the butte to these alfalfa fields. At 
this the subject of current prices for bee pasture was 
gravely discussed — twelve cents per head a month 
said the oldest brother, to which I assented. This 
was the first of how many dinners gayly serious in 
the old homestead. 

On Fourth of July morning I fired a sunrise gun, 
and, not so long afterwards, neighbors paused in 
passing to take me to the picnic. The picnic ground 
was six miles distant in a cleft of the Maury Moun- 
tains, In beautiful pine woods — the red-trunked, 
Rocky Mountain pine that took me back at once to 
my girlhood in the old Black Hills. Every one 
from my neighborhood was present, and even some 
of the *'BasIn" people from over the Rim-Rock, 

[68] 



Acquaintance 

among these latter some firm frIends-to-be, met here 
for the first time. 

But such a spread I Such a country for "eats"! 
Beside all the hearty and substantial things that 
came forth from the baskets, there were strawberry 
shortcake with whipped cream — whipped on the 
picnic ground — loads of variously-flavored ice 
cream, "lovely" cakes with rich and mysterious fill- 
ings, and sweet and spicy preserves of many sorts. 

I remember little beside the lunch and ring games 
in the afternoon. Did drop-the-handkerchief ever 
fail to break the ice of a new acquaintanceship? 
But I remember the sense of home when I got back 
to the tent and the httle biddies, and sat for a bit 
in the moonlight with Bingo's head in my hands. 

A paragraph from the Journal suggests the daily 
round of work and thought at this period : 

"Sagebrush and purshia — a stocky evergreen 
shrub, decked out for a week or two in the spring 
with an exquisite, tiny yellow rose of compelling 
fragrance — encumber the soil and must be removed. 
In converting them into fuel, therefore, one serves 
a double purpose. For the quick fire both are excel- 
lent though unenduring. 

"In this primitive existence one learns not to de- 
plore the necessity for hard labor, but to find a 
daily wonder in the abundance of the first necessities 

[69] 



A Homesteader's Portfolio 

of life — the brimful spring of Icy and crystal water, 
the easily acquired and abundant firewood, the essen- 
tial groceries brought three miles upon one's shoul- 
ders. It Is when one Is weary beyond words, hungry 
and athlrst, that warmth and rest and food and 
drink yield, for the moment, the purest pleasure of 
existence. Through the absence of all conveniences, 
one learns from day to day what are the superflu- 
ities, and also what are the foundation stones of 
civilized existence. And In this simple life — the 
extreme opposite of cooperative Industry — wherein 
one performs every necessary service for oneself, 
how one's heart goes out to the professional and 
perpetual toilers of the world — the hewers of wood 
and drawers of water, the plowmen and cooks and 
laundresses and scrubwomen who have borne our 
burdens upon their shoulders." 



[70] 



XI 

THE BACHELORS 

If bachelors are, as reputed, unduly scarce in 
certain sections of our fair land, the fact Is due to 
segregation. I reveal a secret that geographical 
exploration has laid bare to me. These bachelors, 
taken up by a whirlwind as it were, like snails out 
of a pond, from the region of the ancient community 
and the summer resort, have been rained down again 
upon the sagebrush tracts of Central Oregon. Here, 
philosophically transplanting themselves, they live 
their solitary lives, riding for cattle on grim Rim- 
Rock heights, raising their little store of hay, accu- 
mulating coin, and looking into a solitary future. 

One by one, "upon their errands gliding," these 
bachelors passed within hail of the juniper tree, and 
paused to exchange the time of day. Occasionally 
the spell of the cool shade won them from their 
tenacious grip upon the saddle. Still more rarely 
did they come a-calling with malice aforethought. 
To the Pilgrim, their conversation was full of in- 
terest. It abounded in facts of the New Land — 
such facts as she was seeking — the soil, the seasons, 
the methods of the cattle men, the autumn chase for 

[71] 



A Homesteader's Portfolio 

the scattered herds, the long, long trips to market 
behind the fattened steers, the short and arduous 
winter days when "feeding" consumes all the waking 
hours, the branding and the "turning out" on the 
tender plains of spring. 

Gradually the Pilgrim's interests became inter- 
woven with those of these earlier pioneers. She 
met them on gala days — at picnics, at haying time, 
at basket socials, at the rare church service. Walks 
and rides, on serious errands bent, occasionally co- 
incided. A firmly-founded comradeship was gradu- 
ally evolved — a frank and stimulating acquaintance- 
ship. 

The relationship of confirmed bachelors is like a 
second childhood. It is more concerned with the 
serious interests of life than with the personal rela- 
tionship. The mind is freer than in youth for the 
enjoyment of active experience and interesting cir- 
cumstance. Friends play and work together in 
greater freedom of thought and feeling. And, 
withal, there is a spice that childhood lacked — the 
spice of the fruit of knowledge, the consciousness of 
the complementariness of our severed nature. The 
very spiritual nicety of this happy state, its illusive 
and transcendent happiness, suggests that it is 
ephemeral and transitory. Who knows? Still, the 
joys we have possessed in spite of Fate are ours. 
"Not Heaven itself upon the past has power, but 
what has been has been and we have had our hour." 

[72] 



XII 

THE OLD OREGONIAN 

Had I seen a band of white-faced yearlings, 
brand XYZ? I had. They had occupied my camp 
the day before, during my absence at the post office. 
Consequently I lacked the wherewithal for any spe- 
cies of bread stuff, ditto breakfast porridge, and was 
out sundry dishes and other perishable articles of 
furniture that had been trampled under foot. I 
stated the main facts, sparing details. 

The Old Oregonlan eyed me apprehensively. It 
was customary to retaliate for such depredations 
through the medium of a pitch fork, twenty-two 
shot, well-aimed bowlders, and broken plow points. 
I must have presented an innocent countenance, for 
he appeared relieved, removed his hat and wiped 
a steaming brow, and made an affable comment on 
the heat. 

"Get down and cool off," I Invited. 

He dismounted with the stiff deliberation of the 
weathered rider, and sat beside me on the brown, 
juniper carpet. His hair was grizzled and his skin 
as swarthy as an Arab's. 

[73] 



A Homesteader's Portfolio 

"Power o' chickens!" (My little flock was skim- 
ming past in mad pursuit of a locust.) "All white. 
Rather have 'em mixed. Does better. Buy feed 
for 'em?" 

"Have to buy wheat this first year." 

"Won't pay. Won't lay for you before spring." 

"Oh," I exclaimed, "the Leghorns lay at six 
months!" 

"Claim so," said the Old Oregonian. "Don't 
believe it. Take it from me. Claim rye ain't good 
feed for 'em, either. My hens ain't never had noth- 
ing else — just rye 'round the stack. Kept hens for 
thirty year. Rye can't be beat for all purposes. 
Take it from me." 

"And they lay in winter?" 

"Lay in winter! Hens don't lay in winter. 
'Tain't Nature. Takes newspaper city fellers to 
talk about winter eggs. Don't beheve it. Raised 
hens for thirty year. 

"Where's their mothers?" (This as the shining 
host repassed, led by the captured locust.) 

"They're incubator chickens," I said — "hatched 
in a machine, you know." 

The Old Oregonian's gaze was piercing and se- 
vere. I felt the power of his self-control. 

"I'll show you," I said. I led him within the tent 
and exhibited the machine — the little drawers, the 
lamp, the water pipes. He made no comment what- 
ever, but shook his head gloomily, and we resumed 

[74] 




G 
O 
bO 



a 

'S. 



J3 



W"'. 




The Old Oregonian 

conversation only with difficuhy, again beneath the 
juniper tree. 

"How about the railroad talk, Mr. Hanson?" I 
asked. 

"Railroad nothing!" he responded with vehe- 
mence. "Never seen one, never heerd one, never 
want to. Spoil the country. Spoiled every country 
they ever come to yet. Take it from me." 

"Going to the Fair?" I ventured. 

"Not me. Scheme o' them town sharps to git 
country money. That's all. Hog town, Prine- 
ville is." 



[75] 



XIII 

THE QUEST OF DIOGENES 

I HAD engaged to teach the little school of the 
district this first season, the date of opening being 
set for September first. My arrangements for lum- 
ber having been made in June, I had counted upon 
being cosily housed before my daily work began. 
Only the week before this date, however, I discov- 
ered that my neighbors had made their trip to the 
mill, had decided to bring a full load for themselves, 
and did not wish to make another trip. Frost came 
early that year. Hard ice had formed a time or two 
and it was already a little more than cool in the open 
tent. 

Equally ephemeral proved my plans for breaking. 
I had laid very careful plans. I had one hundred 
dollars for putting in my first crop. No need imme- 
diate or distant was permitted to infringe upon this 
sacred store. The neighbors who had agreed to 
put it in were expansive upon the subject. Many a 
quarter-hour during the summer did we put in dis- 
cussing methods. They were interested in seeing 
me get on, they told me. They could do the work 

[76] 



The Quest of Diogenes 

for me economically and save me expense at the 
outset. Ah well! October found me diligently- 
advertising for man and teams. My seed, laid in 
two months before, occupied a goodly proportion of 
my tent shelter. 

The first and rather surprising fact brought out 
by the advertising was that our neighborhood had 
no citizens who needed to work. Beyond casual 
inquiries as to my success in securing a hand and 
what seemed to my puzzled understanding a certain 
secret satisfaction in my negative responses, no in- 
terest was manifested in my agricultural plans. As 
a tentative explanation of this early experience I 
register a remark of the Old Oregonian's with which 
I became familiar at a later date: 'The only way 
to deal with them homesteaders is to starve 'em out. 
Take it from me." 

However, on a certain notable morning in late 
October appeared beneath the juniper tree a chari- 
table near neighbor. He was an Old Oregonian by 
marriage only, town-mannered, assured of speech, 
benevolent of mien. He, as a neighbor, was con- 
cerned about the Pilgrim's crop. He wished to see 
her succeed. If he could but see his way clear, he 
would himself, even at considerable sacrifice, under- 
take the breaking of her first twenty acres. The 
price offered (arrived at through the most diligent 
inquiry as to the usual thing) was of course some- 
thing of a joke. As a business proposition he would 

[77] 



A Homesteader's Portfolio 

not give it a thought, but for a woman's interest, 
etc., etc., etc. 

Humble and grateful questioning on the part of 
the Pilgrim induced him to meditate deeply. Under 
certain circumstances there was a bare possibility 
that he might undertake it for her. Further eager 
questioning elicited the facts that he lacked certain 
essential machinery for the work and would need 
an extra team which was just now for sale. In order 
to provide himself with this equipment so as to get 
the crop in at a safe date, he would have to have an 
advance of fifty dollars. In fact, and after careful 
thought. If she were thus prepared, he would close 
with her on the spot. Some vestigial trait of shrewd- 
ness awoke and prompted the elated Pilgrim to 
bring forth pen and paper and take receipt for fifty 
dollars with details of the contract. The work was 
to be complete by November fifteenth. The man 
had a friend who would use one of the teams. The 
Samaritan thereupon departed with the air of one 
conferring a colossal boon and the Pilgrim relapsed 
into a dream of her golden harvest with white hens 
straying through Its rustling stems. 

There are periods In every life history upon which 
it is well not to dwell at length — experiences that 
sadden even in retrospect — the death of buoyant 
hope, patient anxiety deepening into despair, doubt 
supplanting confidence, gratitude metamorphosed 
into resentment. The sequel of this transaction? 

[78] 



The Quest of Diogenes 

On a soft April evening the Pilgrim received a legal 
envelope containing her fifty dollars, less the ten 
per cent lawyer's fee. The sagebrush slopes were 
still unbroken. The first harvest would be one year 
late. 



[79] 



XIV 

DINNER IN THE BASIN 

These are my vivid memories of one typical 
social event of this first autumn: 

Hay harvest is long past and the untouched 
stacks augur well for the "feeding" season. The 
threshing machine with its invading army has 
scourged the land and left still a few measures of 
grain in the bins. "Riding for stock" has not yet 
begun, for pasture is good this year and cattle will 
remain long on the ranges. Fall plowing of the 
hay fields is now on, but this is only October and 
there is no haste. So, in this little lull of the yearns 
labors, in this bright time before the lowering of 
the long winter, there is to be a "little dinner" in 
the Basin — one of those little dinners that are be- 
coming quite the thing with a happy circle of us — 
friendly gatherings that make a strong appeal to the 
new and lonesome homesteader. 

Retiring early last night to be ready for to-day, I 
saw, between the curtains of my tent, a huge, orange 
globe slide up the cool and slaty east. This morn- 
ing, simultaneously with my own rising, a blood- 
orange sun timed itself almost to the moon's setting. 

[80] 



Dinner in the Basin 

There Is a tang and a tingle and a thrill In the air as 
of joyous things about to be. Biddies are fed 
and tent In order, and I am only just settling my 
white cotton tie when next-door-nelghbor-home- 
steader Ben Franklin, in impeccable attire, appears 
with the horse I have chartered — a fleet, long-limbed 
cow pony whom I dearly love to ride. Ben Franklin 
is a lovable boy from Chicago, seeking his fortune 
in this far land. 

So we two set out — the first of a numerous com- 
pany — and gather a following as we advance. 
Descending from his mountain height, Andrew 
DeLong — a stately, dark-browed native of the soil, 
with a reminiscence of Indian In his eye and hair — 
is our first recruit. Next we pause at the open door 
of a little shack and salute Mary Porter and her 
brother. Mary is teaching now beyond the moun- 
tain, and rides home each Friday evening to sleep 
two nights on the claim and to establish Yankee 
system and order In her brother's neglected bachelor 
abode. Mary has a bright greeting for each of us 
with the exception of Andrew, toward whom she 
assumes a rather haughty bearing, yet with whom, 
nevertheless, she presently falls behind, and is not 
heard from more till dinner is half over. Ah, well 
do I foresee — but enough. At the Nash ranch — 
one of the flower of the old-time ranches — we ac- 
quire the three girls. They come racing down to 
meet us, straight and agile on their sprightly ponies. 

[8i] 



A Homesteader's Portfolio 

The brothers are "riding for stock'' in the Basin 
and will join us at dinner. 

We pass a ranch house here and there from which 
we get no delegate, and only an indifferent or defiant 
greeting. We are the interlopers who have cut up 
and fenced the ranges, and brought in the new day 
— the day of the small ranch and more intensive 
farming, succeeding that of unlimited range and a 
minimum of labor. There are feuds, moreover, 
among the old-time residents — relics of sheep and 
cattle wars and lawless acts visited by neighbor upon 
neighbor. Those who join us not, perchance, run 
not with those who do. 

The Rim-Rock is the name given to what remains 
of the cap rock of the region, topping high ranges 
here and there — a lofty table land level as a floor, 
the summer feeding ground of stock. Our way lies 
over the Rim-Rock, a long and arduous climb, and 
down on the thither side into a favored and fertile 
valley known as the Basin — somewhat inaccessible, 
and innocent as yet of the toot of motors or even of 
the threshing machine. We climb deliberately, paus- 
ing now and then on level terraces to breathe our 
steeds, and to enjoy the expanding view of valley 
and mountain. Even on these high slopes, little 
homestead shacks and broken acres testify to the 
rapid populating of the country. Here, at a turn of 
the road, a grave and modest young horseman 
awaits us, chary of speech but quick in response, 

[82] 



Dinner in the Basin 

with a sweet smile and snappy eye. Son of an 
illustrious New England family, near relative of a 
famous New York preacher, he is bravely hewing 
out his way alone in the Land of Promise. 

We are a cheerful crowd and a friendly as 
we ride and chat, comparing experiences of other 
days and scenes, or consulting over problems that 
are similar and immediate. There is a fresh, free 
comradeship of the homesteaders — a hopeful, hard- 
working, out-of-door sympathy — that comes near 
being an ideal camaraderie of men and women. 
Hard-working bachelors we are, with human sym- 
pathies and understandings. 

On the top of the Rim-Rock — merely a narrow 
ridge where the trail crosses — we cry out at the 
wonder and the beauty of the low-lying valleys on 
either hand, and we hang like eagles above them 
both. The autumn air is sparkling and delicious. 
Sagebrush is in bloom, and in fertile dimples of the 
slopes waves its yellowish brushes with their spicy 
odor. Yet it is a bare, bare landscape that we look 
upon — bare and gray. Pines on the mountain tops, 
junipers dotted over the lower country, and rare 
little patches of golden aspens hugging the springs 
— these constitute the forest features. No jungle or 
shrubbery, no vines, no soft obscuring undergrowth. 
Bare, bold mountains, bare plains, and gray sage 
reach to the landscape's rim. The second half of 
our journey offers some level stretches on which we 

[83] 



A Homesteader's Portfolio 

may do some speeding, and we avail ourselves of 
the opportunity, for the climb has taken much time 
and the October days are short. 

The ranch of our destination lies near the center 
of the Basin — the home of one of those rare old- 
time families whose large hearts and sympathies 
have welcomed the new age and the new comer. 
Huge haystacks dwarf the barns into insignificance 
and we know what a multitude of white-faced cattle 
will come presently down from the Rim-Rock to win- 
ter here. Careful irrigation has made possible a 
fruitful orchard and an acre of small fruits, also 
shade trees and a lawn. Neighbor women are help- 
ing in the kitchen and men stand about in the stack 
yard, ready to take our horses and to give them the 
fat of the land. We gratefully stretch our stiffened 
limbs and seek the warm and fragrant kitchen and 
the hearty welcome that awaits us. 

On a long table built for the occasion, our dinner 
is already being spread, and we sit down without 
delay and without formality — the shy bachelors seg- 
regating themselves and those more gallant seeking 
places beside the far-outnumbered feminine elements 
of the company. Turkey, smothered in dressing and 
drowned in gravy, head cheese and sausages, mashed 
potato beaten light with cream, delicately canned 
string beans, onions, carrots, and turnips expertly 
served, cold slaw with whipped cream, creamy Dutch 
cheeses, deviled eggs, brown bread and white bread 

[84] 



Dinner in the Basin 

and tender "sour dough" biscuit hot from the oven, 
golden butter, steaming coffee and pitchers of but- 
tery cream, marmalade, jelly, preserves, sweet 
pickles and sour pickles, fruit pies and cream pies, 
canned fruits and various cakes, and always cream 
and cream and cream. This is the "little dinner" to 
which we are so modestly bidden. 

This is the luxury to which the sweat of the brow 
and the hopeful heart have attained in the New 
Land. 

The talk is intermittent — appetites being so keen, 
and satisfaction for them so abundant. Such as 
there is is jolly and facetious, and we are better 
friends for having sat about this board in company. 
The sun is low and frost is already threatening in 
the shadows when we speed our way homeward — up 
to the Rim-Rock summit and precipitately down 
again. 



[85] 



XV 
"behold, in the tent" 

In spite of constant anxiety as to crop and domi- 
cile, my early walks to school through the tingling 
autumn air brought elation and unflagging optimism. 
I did the seven miles daily without a thought of 
weariness. Certain conditions attending the open- 
ing of the school were as typical as were my indus- 
trial adventures. It happened that the chairman of 
the school board that year, though of pioneer fam- 
ily, enjoyed, together with his wife who had been a 
town girl, the reputation of being "high-toned." 
He had large business interests and their Ideals of 
living were more refined than those of their neigh- 
bors. Hence, though they were exceptionally well- 
qualified to lead in neighborhood affairs, anything 
that they started was doomed at the outset. 

The chairman having desired to open school on 
September first, it behooved the Old Oregonians to 
frustrate the plan. Having been unsuccessful in 
changing the date, they decided upon a camping ex- 
pedition to the mountains and removed from the 
neighborhood for the first month three fourths of 
the pupils — the total neighborhood quota being four 

[86] 



"Behold, in the Tent" 

boys. Throughout September I taught one quiet 
and lonely little pupil, comparing the experience as 
to wear and tear of nerves with one in which I had 
conducted eighty pupils, with the help of an assist- 
ant. About the first of October the other boys came 
into school and I began my study of Old Oregonian 
boyhood. These boys were all natives of Central 
Oregon. Prineville — thirty miles distant — marked 
their most daring adventure into the world. They 
were bright naturally, but little drawn out mentally, 
and they were already somewhat bound and blinded 
by the prevailing bigotry. Anything that was "dif- 
ferent" was condemned without a hearing. They 
had the habit of ridicule of all foreigners and for- 
eign ways. However, we got on very well as long 
as I confined our activities to the schoolroom. 

As the days grew short, I had barely time, after 
reaching home, to get in the night's allowance of 
dead wood, to feed the chickens and give them a 
half hour's freedom, and to bring water for myself 
and them. I shall never forget how each evening 
as I mounted the last ridge on my homeward way, 
I looked for men and teams in my sagebrush. It 
was a will-o'-the-wisp that led me many a weary 
chase before I caught it. On Hallowe'en evening, 
however, I spied from afar something new and 
glistening within my boundaries. John Porter had 
dropped his own work for a day and brought the 
lumber for my tent house. Fortunately it was not 

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A Homesteader's Portfolio 

"dark of the moon," so, during the next week, in 
the cold and brilliant moonlight, I set up my little 
tent house and moved in on the second Saturday, 
having roped in a passing stranger to help me raise 
the tent pole. 

From the Journal I take a few notes as to my 
tent-dwelling days: 

"The dweller in tents becomes an expert in 
meteorology and a student of distant spheres. It 
was inevitable that the nomads should be students 
and worshippers of the heavens. If one is a light 
sleeper there is no change by night or day but 
becomes apparent. Changes of temperature, of 
humidity, of air currents; precipitation, whether 
rain or snow or sleet or hail; the clear or cloudy 
sky; the phase of the moon; the areas of the horizon 
traversed annually by the rising or setting sun; the 
ascendant planets; the shifting constellations. 

"Living so close to Nature in seemingly so frail a 
tenement breeds confidence in Nature's self-restraint 
as well as in the adequacy of the well-set tent house. 
When the cloudburst finds you, as find you it will 
sooner or later in Central Oregon, you stand beneath 
your ridge pole enjoying a filtered downpour that 
drenches every exposed article in your habitation. 
But when there falls a bombarding and unmerciful 
visitation of hail that, perchance, beats holes in the 
shingled roofs of your neighbors, it bounds harm- 

[88] 



"Behold, in the Tent" 

less from the yielding tent. When the furious semi- 
tornado from the southwest which is due Rve or six 
times In the course of the year has you in its clutches, 
you cower and hold your breath, your house is 
shaken like a rat. Books, dishes, jars of preserves, 
fly about your head like tokens from the spirit 
world. Yet, when the fury of the storm is spent, 
the dwelling is Intact. The roof that bellied like a 
bubble about to burst resumes Its former shape — 
through yielding has come off conquerer — while so- 
called firmer structures may be leveled with the 
ground. In dead of winter, it is difficult to find a 
cosier habitation than a well-built tent house, fur- 
nished with a vigorous little heater and a pile of 
juniper wood. In the heat of summer it is unin- 
habitable, but the owner turns out at this season to 
labor in the fields, and night finds it cool and sweet 
for well-earned rest." 

And while hopes and temperature rose and fell 
during these autumn days, came the inevitable mar- 
keting incident In the Leghorn flock. Chickens for 
eggs had been my sole purpose from the first, but 
there comes a day when the superfluous little cocks 
must leave the flock. When I awoke one glorious 
autumn morning and heard my little chanticleers 
calling up the sun for the last time I suffered an 
acute pang. John Porter had agreed to come at 
twilight after the victims had gone to roost. I saw 

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A Homesteader's Portfolio 

to my ax that it should do its part and I steeled 
myself to hold each victim, In order that no terror 
or bungling should darken these last moments and 
my memory. So quiet was the operation that each 
little cock slept with head under wing till his turn 
came. At last, sick and weak, I viewed the snow- 
white pile and dismissed John Porter with his price 
and with my lasting gratitude. He had been very 
quick and sure. 

All day Saturday and all day Sunday I scalded 
and picked and the cold pile of white plump bodies 
grew and grew. On Monday of Thanksgiving 
week, which was vacation, I went to town with 
Ben Franklin and John Porter to peddle my wares. 
It was a new experience and an interesting one to 
seek the back door and offer country produce. How 
nice the women were ! Everywhere I had a little 
chat and not once was a chicken refused. They were 
attractive chickens and it was Thanksgiving time 
and chickens were scarce In town. Prices were good 
and when I returned It was with a fat little purse — 
the very first returns from Broadview. And at 
about this same time, the little pullets came to the 
fore with bristling red combs and frantically cawing 
demeanor. A new era was begun and I provided a 
worthy basket, since collecting eggs from a true 
Leghorn flock Is no mere form. The Leghorn hen 
is born to lay, and one must have a market ready, 
else one will be snowed under and entombed in the 

[90] 



"Behold, in the Tent'' 

accumulating product. Lovely, white, red-topped 
biddies — ever cheerily singing, tirelessly active I 

During this fall came Kitty Kat to Broadview — 
gift of Aunt Polly Fadden, whom I shall have occa- 
sion to mention more at length. Kitty Kat was a 
two-months'-old kitten, silky black with snowy 
trimmings — she was born most exquisitely neat. 
Bingo accepted her tolerantly, though not desiring 
her, and she became at once a sine qua non of fam- 
ily completeness. One who has failed to test the 
winningness of a young cat has not come into the 
whole of his inheritance. 

Shortly before Christmas came the basket social. 
I attended with a simple white box decorated with 
decalcomanie and containing the best of my culinary 
art so far as the limitations of my situation permit- 
ted. I was to receive a stunning blow. The whole 
front of the room was banked with crepe paper 
edifices Ionic, Doric, Gothic, embellished with such 
paper wreaths and blossoms as no clime had pro- 
duced for me. These triumphs were auctioned one 
by one by the wit of the neighborhood and brought 
in some cases huge prices by the very arrogance of 
their bearing. My own shamefaced creation was 
bought cheap by an itinerant stranger, who had truly 
the appearance of the wild man of Borneo. Trem- 
blingly I shared fried chicken and sponge cake with 
him, expecting every minute to see a boomerang 
projecting from the folds of his garments or to see 

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A Homesteader's Portfolio 

him run amok through the splendors of the spread. 
Being truly a trifle apprehensive lest he might think 
his obligations included walking home with me, I 
slipped out early and made tall tracks for Broad- 
view. I had gone only a short distance before I 
heard steps behind me. I increased my speed, but 
so did my pursuer. Unable to keep my distance, I 
faced about, ready for my last fight, and met Ben 
Frankhn's laugh. We were coming to be good 
friends, as young brother and big sister, and Ben 
had fully appreciated my position. We had a lovely 
moonlight walk in the crisp frost, during which my 
ignominious failure and my wild tete-a-tete became 
altogether delightful and worth while. 

My Journal commenting upon this incident con- 
fesses briefly: 

**What sort of old maid am I anyway that I can't 
walk home in the moonlight with an attractive boy 
without tingling from head to foot! Good reason 
why devoted hermits segregate themselves. In the 
peace of Broadview I haven't felt this way for lo 
these many moons." 

Winter came on apace and the first week of Jan- 
uary was a test of the pioneer. Parents requested 
that school be closed for a week, and I spent it soli- 
tary, as my Journal notes: 

"We have had a little touch of 'dead-o'-wlnter,' 
with deep snow. Rather than break a trail while 

[92] 



"Behold, in the Tent" 

the storms continued, I have remained at home and 
rather closely in the tent house with the exception 
of the hours required for stocking up with wood 
from my piles one quarter mile distant — a serious 
offset to the relief from the regular seven-mile walk 
through the snow. I have done much reading, 
writing, mending, thinking, but rather dully, for the 
gloom and cold oppress me somewhat. The sun, 
appearing, if appearing at all, in the mid-forenoon 
and disappearing only three or four hours later, 
seems a negligible influence in dispelling the cold and 
frost. I see this is the phase just opposite to those 
endless and cloudless days of June. I have viewed 
with some concern the exhaustion of my stock of 
matches, but my fire has, for some time past, kept 
invariably through the night, and I have trusted to a 
continuance of the practice. 

''This morning I awoke to a zero temperature, a 
sleety wind beating upon and through my little shel- 
ter, and a sparkless stove. I was due again in the 
schoolroom to-day. I dressed as quickly as pos- 
sible, pausing frequently to warm stiff fingers within 
my clothing that I might be able to cope with the 
absolutely essential pins and buckles. I fed and 
watered the chickens, since I expected to be gone all 
day, and started on my customary walk to business 
— three and a half miles through unbroken drifts. 
I had had only a frozen biscuit for inward cheer and 
I was in acute pain at the start with fingers and toes. 

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A Homesteader's Portfolio 

Well, I wallowed and skidded and tumbled and 
wept like a complaining child. I record this hour of 
comparative torture since It was very real, but it is 
easily forgotten. No one came to school, so I 
walked on to the post office, where I was generously 
warmed and fed at an always hospitable table." 

One more event of this first winter I must chron- 
icle since It left me a sadder and wiser pedagogue : 

It seemed to me that the obligation rested upon 
the school to present some form of neighborhood 
entertainment In the course of the year, and beside 
this I wanted to increase the library. Our chair- 
man's family took great Interest In the plan and so 
also did the little group of newer residents who had 
been my special friends, so also the Nashes and 
others of the broader mind among old residents. 
There was In this group considerable talent of vari- 
ous kinds and I very quickly located and had prom- 
ised sufficient numbers to make a good program. We 
invited In addition all of whom we could learn who 
had formerly performed in public — histrionically, 
musically, or otherwise. 

.We held a rehearsal a week before the Intended 
event. Not one of those whom we had learned to 
call the obstructionists was present, and we had 
reports from all sides as to the reaction to our plan. 
Charging for a program was an unheard of and 
preposterous thing. If we had had ''perfesslonals" 

[94] 



"Behold, in the Tent" 

to offer It might do. And only cake and coffee for 
'*eats" I Fifty cents should call for ice cream at the 
very least. And then those books. Wouldn't any- 
body rather have a book of his own than buy one for 
the schoolhouse and buy the one he wanted, too ! 
The books desired It appeared were of a very doubt- 
ful nature and likely to be corrupting. The whole 
thing ''stuck in the Old Oregonlan's craw," which 
was sufficient. It appeared that they meant to boy- 
cott the thing in no uncertain manner. In this pre- 
dicament, the chairman's wife Invited the company 
to give their program at her house, which we did, 
spending a very delightful evening, not without the 
coveted ice cream but quite without an entrance fee 
and with no results to the library. 

Before leaving this school year, which was in 
spite of all a pleasant and friendly year In the school- 
room, I must record a crime of my own which is 
probably known at this date in every district in the 
county. Not one of the one hundred and sixty 
school pilgrimages of the term but Bingo shared. 
He was dignified and unobjectionable in the school- 
room, lying always at my feet except when he would 
occasionally stretch himself and ask to go abroad. 
It is reported, however — an "echo that rolls from 
soul to soul and rolls forever and forever" — that 
on one fateful day I allowed Bingo to drink out of 
the school water bucket. What foundation this 
legend has in fact I have never been able to deter- 

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A Homesteader's Portfolio 

mine. My record Is soiled with many a similar 
eccentricity, and I know many a clean and healthy 
beast that I prefer to drink after rather than after 
many a human. In their anxiety after what was 
hygienic and sanitary it had never appealed to the 
district to provide anything more advanced than an 
open pail and a cup or two. Into this pail was 
dipped the cup of any casual tramp, for we were on 
the thoroughfare that crossed Central Oregon, two 
hundred miles long. Into this pail went also the 
common cup to refresh a seemingly consumptive 
member of a school family. This, however, never 
aroused comment. It Is on the books that a beast is 
unclean and unclean he must be. 



[96] 



XVI 

SPRING 

By the time the school term was closed I had one 
hundred and fifty eggs ready, and in the freedom 
of that final Friday evening I fired up the incubator 
and inaugurated the season's work. From then 
until fall I was not without chicks of all ages — 
beautiful little herds that must be regularly fed 
from five to three times a day, watered at all hours 
(carry water for five hundred and learn their amaz- 
ing capacity), watched unwinkingly, sheltered from 
wind and changes, and tucked up with careful judg- 
ment at bedtime, not to mention unfailing nightly 
excursions to see if all is well at two o'clock in the 
morning, when all the heat of the day has escaped 
from the earth's crust through the crystalline atmos- 
phere of the desert. 

With the close of school, too, came friends from 
the Basin to do my first breaking. They would not 
see me cropless a second year. They were home- 
steaders themselves and had had troubles of their 
own. They tented close by and day by day I walked 
out to see the new sod curl from the plow and the 
sagebrush piles rise high and higher. Now and then 

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A Homesteader's Portfolio 

at twilight we burned the piles. Sagebrush has a 
way of its own when it comes to burning. It rises in 
a wonderful, clear flame and breathes incense upon 
all beholders. 

The garden site had long been chosen, where 
grass grew in unbroken luxuriance and the gentlest 
of slopes promised both drainage and easy tillage, 
and where the sun lay longest through those endless 
summer days — for the season is short and there is 
no sunshine to spare. I cultivated an acre by hand 
that summer, doing everything except the first 
breaking. The Journal tells it with something of 
the immediate warmth of the experience: 

* 'While the soil yet rests in frozen somnolence, the 
seed catalogue with its alluring cuts, its suggestion 
of all fruitfulness, claims many an evening. We 
check and recheck our careful list; we order while 
the snow yet lies white upon our fields, hoping to 
cajole and coax the tardy spring. Our little pack- 
ages of varied shapes and sizes fascinate us like a 
miner's hoard. There is a new thrill in the spring 
breezes and in the loosened waters. And when, 
after the thawing and the drying, the soil is at last 
ready for our tools, what glad though back-breaking 
days are ours, turning and hoeing and raking to a 
perfection of granulated fineness. Our bodies at 
night are an incubus of exquisite weariness and 
small aches in unaccustomed places. We feel a new 

[98] 



Spring 

joy In the evening's peace and in our little circle 
gathered about the door-stone, be it only the faith- 
ful domestic companions of the solitary home- 
steader. Later, in luxurious relaxation, we resolve 
to write an ode to the immemorial couch, and we 
know nothing more till golden dawn and the song 
of robins bring glad memories of the task in hand. 

"What queer little things seeds are, and how 
various the taste of plants in styles of swaddling 
clothes ! How similar the parsnip and the radish in 
manner of growth, yet what more unlike than the 
compact and polished little sphere of the radish seed 
and the winged and airy potential parsnip. How we 
love to let them slide through the fingers and with 
what tender solicitude we rake the warm earth over 
and pat it down! Beans and peas are so Immedi- 
ately suggestive of the gathered harvest that we 
drop them with trembling fingers. 

"Thereafter sun and shower are In peculiar meas- 
ure our own. We seem to be sympathetically swell- 
ing and basking in the beneficence of Nature. It is 
wonderful to see little hnes of green appear just as 
we designed them. We had hardly expected that. 
The delicate tracery upon the black soil is our own 
pattern — a living embroidery growing daily In relief 
and beauty. Hoeing is a joy, notwithstanding that 
the weary limbs must be stretched many a time be- 
neath a friendly tree in sheer inability to labor 
farther. And, when the season of hoeing is over for 

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A Homesteader's Portfolio 

the time being, we understand for the first time that 
familiar phrase 'laid by.' The crops are 'laid by' — 
consigned to the mercies of sun and shower, free to 
fulfil the instinct of growth whereby each plant at- 
tains to its 'pecuHar difference.' We have done our 
part. The rest is 'up to God.' 

"Did we really raise those crispy, crimson rad- 
ishes, that early lettuce? What more delicate lunch 
combined with delicate white eggs from the Leghorn 
flock? Are those fat peas ours, dropping like little 
beneficent bullets from our fingers to the pan? The 
tender red beets and early turnips; the unending 
*messes' of waxy beans I We have never cared 
greatly for summer vegetables. How have we sud- 
denly become a fanatical devotee? And in carrying 
cool, green offerings to the neighbors, we feel that 
we are sharing a princely portion. In spite of your 
towering cities, your bewildering and multitudinous 
metamorphoses of Nature, still, 'while the earth 
remaineth, seedtime and harvest shall not cease. 



) )) 



Sometimes as I hoed, or shepherded my white 
flocks, John or Mary Porter would come riding on 
Bucephalus and would pause to compare notes and 
to lend encouragement. Sometimes three or four of 
the Nashes would come to sit for an hour under the 
juniper tree and to "chirk me up" with fun and 
kindliness — not to speak of the huge red apples that 
they shed on each occasion. Sometimes Ben Frank- 

[100] 



Spring 

lln would come through, warm and busy and full of 
enthusiasm about his own first fruits. He had a first 
grain crop that year. Or Isaac Newton would 
pause diffidently to read me a prose poem of no 
uncertain merit. 

On May Day I gave my first party. In the pleni- 
tude of eggs at Broadview and the scarcity of other 
things I had evolved a number of creations among 
which the egg pancake took first honors. On May 
Day then, in acknowledgment of much sweet hospi- 
tality enjoyed, I offered unlimited egg pancakes to 
those hardy souls among my friends who would 
undertake to scale Friar Butte with me. About 
twenty achieved both the summit and the pancakes 
and, by whatever curious source of inspiration 
moved, the whole party adjourned to the school- 
house and organized a Sunday school — a Sunday 
school, moreover, that was to be no bromidic affair, 
as perhaps may appear later. 

I had been diligently studying dry farming, espe- 
cially by means of the bulletins of the state and 
county experiment stations, and had carefully se- 
lected grain and garden seed in accordance with 
their advice. An experiment of this first summer 
was a little crop of Milo Maize, cultivated by hand. 
It did not ripen in the short season, but yielded a 
prodigious amount of fodder. As soon as the tem- 
perature at midnight began to threaten frost, I cut 
this precious fodder — about six hundred pounds — 

[lOl] 



A Homesteader's Portfolio 

with the carving knife, and tied it in bundles. This 
little first crop, which was carefully stored for the 
winter, looking toward that dear hope for the fol- 
lowing summer^ — a cow — was later devoured by the 
Old Oregonian's rapacious steers, during my absence 
from the place. 

The garden throve, but before the close of the 
summer that little cloud, that had been no larger 
than a man's hand when I came to Broadview, had 
begun to darken the heavens. I refer to the jack 
rabbits. In the early summer, while wild growth 
was still plentiful and succulent, they kept their dis- 
tance, but as soon as this began to crisp, they turned 
in upon the garden. Each night they took their toll 
and the dally growth failed to keep pace with them. 
I tried to Induce Bingo to accept responsibility for 
the policing of the garden, but he was an old dog 
and this was a new trick. He scattered the rabbits 
in a wild rout when I sicked him on, but he could not 
be taught to watch. At length, I hit upon the plan 
of carrying my blankets down at bedtime and sleep- 
ing in the grass at the edge of the garden. Here, in 
spite of many a ghostly attack upon them, I often 
awoke to find Bingo curled in slumber at my feet 
and bright-eyed jacks nibbling their fill almost at 
arm's length. In the end, all of the later garden fell 
to them. Even the roots and tubers, which I left 
to be harvested in the fall, they cheerfully dug and 
devoured, almost to the last potato. 

[102] 



XVII 

AUNT POLLY PIONEER 

"Do you know Mrs. Fadden?" 

"Aunt Polly? Well, sure!" 

"She is my near neighbor." 

My charioteer smote his thigh, and turned to look 
me squarely in the face. "Gee ! but you're the 

lucky " He was about to say dog, of course, 

but pulled up in confusion. I accepted the slip as 
tribute to the comradeship that had been established 
between us during our fifty-mile ride from the rail- 
road. 

And now she sat beneath my juniper tree — ^Aunt 
Polly, a little wiry, work-worn, gray woman, with 
very brown, deep-set eyes like my dog's. I was a 
one-year-old homesteader, and Aunt Polly and I 
had arrived at an understanding. I was not a tale- 
bearer, and Aunt Polly had relaxed to-me-ward the 
inexorable jaw with which the pioneers are wont to 
guard the secrets of their generation, and had be- 
come for me the historian of the cattle country. Her 
eyes looked far out over the sage and juniper-cov- 
ered slopes to the blue mountains beyond the river, 

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A Homesteader^s Portfolio 

and she vlsioned again old days for my benefit. She 
had heard by 'phone that I had had a fall from a 
borrowed horse, and had trotted over with a bottle 
of liniment and a pie. I had landed like a cat, and 
ignored the liniment, but was an appropriate subject 
for the pie. 

"The little pig died," said Aunt Polly mournfully, 
"that's why I didn't come sooner. The dogs hurt it 
yesterday an' it died this morning — a right nice little 

pig." 

"Too bad," I said. 

"Yes," responded Aunt Polly meditatively, "but 
them that has must lose." 

Then she brightened, smoothing down her apron. 
"There's agoin' to be a candy pull on Nora Stimson, 
Sat'day. You must be ready an' we'll come by. 
Seems like she's been sort o' 'fended cause they've 
had s'prises on everybody else an' ain't never had 
none on her. So they're goin' to give her a candy- 
pullin'. Madden's baby swallowed a cartridge — a 
twenty-two. They had Doc Andrews, but he ain't 
got it." 

I ventured the sally that the Madden baby might 
regard a cartridge as his natural nourishment. The 
Maddens are all sharp shots, and tradition has it 
that, when game is scarce, the neighbors' stock is 
none too safe. 

Aunt Polly regarded me with puzzled gravity, 
facetiousness being quite out of her line, but pres- 

[104] 



Aunt Polly — Pioneer 

ently she accorded me a tardy ''Mebbe." Then she 
smoothed the apron again. (This gesture recorded 
the paragraphs of the telephone bulletin.) 

I steered Aunt Polly toward the relation of a his- 
tory that she had frequently promised me — how she 
came to the country thirty years ago. 

"It was April when we come," she said. "Yes, 
from The Dalles, two hundred miles. We'd heerd 
there'd be grass for the stock by then, so we'd 
waited. We was on the road eighteen days, 'count 
o' the stock. There was calves born on the way. 
We settled ten miles from neighbors, in the edge o' 
the pine timber. An' we hadn't more'n got the tent 
up 'fore Pauline (she called it Po-line) was born." 

I gasped. 

"Yes. Pd overstrained myself an' she come too 
soon. She never knowed the difference, though." 
Aunt Polly smiled as was her wont when "Po-line" 
was mentioned — gallant, gay-hearted Pauline, now 
the mother of her own little brood of advancing 
proportions. 

"Next morning but one there was a foot o' snow, 
an' Fadden sure had a time !" I wondered about 
Mrs. Fadden in the ten-by-twelve tent, with four 
riotous boys and the new baby. 

"We lost some stock. They wasn't used to it 
then." This apologetically, as for the weak fiber of 
stock in those early days. Well, I knew they were 
used to it now, having surreptitiously forked many 

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A Homesteader's Portfolio 

a bunch of hay across the fence to the hungry-eyed 
Fadden calves. 

^'Soon as I was up, we set out sawing logs. All 
that summer we sawed logs an' boards — yes, whlp- 
sawln' like — for the settlers that come. We was 
nearest to the timber. We made shakes, too. In 
between, we built our house, an' fenced fifteen acres 
for fodder an' garden. Yes, I dug many a post hole, 
an' set the post alone, but it's best for two to do it. 
One can hold while t'other tamps. 

"Graters' folks come in that summer an' Pikes' — 
best o' friends they was — come together. You know 
what they are now." 

"What was the matter. Aunt Polly?" Aunt Polly 
drew a long breath, reminded herself that I am not 
a tale-bearer, and proceeded. 

"Graters' had a steer was always In Pikes' garden. 
Pike vowed he'd kill him. Run him clear to our 
dooryard one day an' shot him there. Pike hauled 
him off Into the sagebrush. The coyotes ate him, an' 
Grater never knowed for a year what come of him." 

"You didn't tell I" 

Aunt Polly opened her eyes at me. "Sure notl 
Wouldn't nobody tell a thing like that." 

"But it was a kind of crime. Aunt Polly." 

Aunt Polly gave my objection not the slightest 
consideration. She answered shortly, "We don't," 
and continued. (In passing, for how many of our 
established customs can we give a better reason? 

[io6] 



Aunt Polly — Pioneer 

"We do" or "we don't," that is all. And it all dates 
back — but that is quite another story.) 

"About a year after that, Grater was to our house 
one day an' my little Joe comes to me an' says, quite 
loud, 'It were Jim Grater's steer what Lon Pike 
killed by our gate, warn't it, Ma?' Grater give one 
look an' put out for home. That night there was 
six sheep killed in Lon Pike's corral. A week later 
Grater lost a horse, an' then Pike a cow. An' so 
they kep' it up — killin' more'n they raised some 
years. 

"Then Brother Summy comes out an' holds tent 
meetin' an' a baptizin'. That's when / was bap- 
tized." (Aunt Polly smoothes her apron with a 
little smile, as of one who has closed one trouble- 
some account.) "He worked on Pike an' Grater 
particular, he'd heerd about 'em; but it didn't 
seem to do no good till, down on the river bank, 
they comes up an' shakes hands, an' goes down into 
the water together. That held for quite a while, 
though you could see they was gettin' riled again. 
An' then come the dance." 

"The dance?" Aunt Polly suggests a topic and 
waits to have it adopted before she dilates upon it. 

"Harrisons built the first big house, an' give a 
dance for a house-warmin'. There was lots o' 
drinkin'. Sally Harrison herself can drink with the 
men. Her an' young Sally was both drunk, an' 
some o' the men was right wild. Well, when Pikes 

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A Homesteader's Portfolio 

got home, Annie — she was a young girl not more'n 
sixteen — warn't with 'em. Too crazy to know it 
they was when they left. Next day, when she 
warn*t to be found, it turned out Dick Grater was 
missin', too. 

"Lon Pike swore it was human killin' this time, 
an' he got out with his gun. 

"Then come Dick an' Annie in the night, beggin' 
us for a horse to go to town an' get married. There 
was a little old brandin' shack up in our timber. 
That's where they'd been, three days." 

"You knew it!" 

"Fadden seen them." 

I remembered "We don't," and said nothing. 

"They come back a week later with stificat' all 
fixed up with date same as night o' the dance. The 
old folks mistrusted, likely. They ain't spoke since, 
but everybody else s'poses it were straight." 

So that was Mrs. Grater, with the rather high 
chin and patronizing air, and this little brown-eyed 
woman before me was the sole and sufficient guar- 
dian of her good name ! In spirit I saluted humbly. 

"One day in meetin'," continued Aunt Polly, 
"Annie Grater said something about a poor young 
orphan thing that was mistreated here among us, 
an' was for sendin' her out of the country. I just 
turned clear 'round an' give her one look, an' she 
dropped like a busted bubble." 

[io8] 



Aunt Polly — Pioneer 

"How long since the schoolhouse was built, Aunt 
Polly?" 

"Fifteen years. Fadden an' me made the shakes 
an' cut a part of the logs. Everybody helped, an' 
when it was done, we had the first basket social !" 

I suppressed a groan, but, glancing at Aunt Polly, 
I saw the event was one of true historic importance. 
It was as if one had mentioned the making of the 
first book, or the invention of the art of printing. 

"Everybody just covered their boxes with white 
paper an' tied them with little bows." Aunt Polly- 
smiled over the simplicity of those early days. 

"Pd like to have been there," I said. My heart 
was still heavy with the memory of the last basket 
social with its funereal monuments of crepe paper 
and paper flowers. 

Aunt Polly missed my irony as I intended she 
should. "It was a right nice time," she said. 

Upon one subject Aunt Polly is still reserved even 
with me — the character of the late Mr. Fadden, 
but, by implication, he was no saint. 

"That's when the saloon come to Danes' Flat," 
she said once. "We was gettin' along before then." 

"There ain't much about a man that I don't 
know," she remarked at another time, "an' I've no 
use for one whatever." She regards her four stal- 
wart sons, who are devoted to her, with a cynical 
fondness that is unfathomable. 

[109] 



A Homesteader's Portfolio 

It is in the midst of this circle of sons that Aunt 
Polly is at her best. When I go to return the pie- 
plate, filled with shining, white, thoroughbred eggs, 
I hear Aunt Polly ranting, with the voice of a man, 
while I am yet afar off. 

*'0r ril take it out of you !" These are her last 
words as I open the door. 

"Pm givin' 'em the devil,'' she explains, turning 
an unbending countenance upon me. "Look at 'em. 
I want to kill 'em!" 

The four stalwart sons sit about the table playing 
cards, and look up with broad and benevolent 
smiles. They adore Aunt Polly and they know 
there's many a stroke of work awaiting them, but 
what's the hurry? 

Aunt Polly accepts the plate and gives me a cor- 
dial welcome, but ignores the eggs. The Pioneers 
give royally, but accept with a bad grace. 

We all fall to the discussion of agriculture and of 
the promising condition of stock. I am told of the 
probable increase of the coming year and of the 
vicissitudes of the past. On the wall above the 
youths as they sit, hangs a glittering armory which 
represents the joy and pride of their being to a far 
greater extent than their tilled fields and browsing 
stock. And they love to kill, these tawny sons of 
Jacob, these herdsmen and shepherds and men of the 
chase, with an avidity that makes one tremble. 

"Reckon Mis' Dunham won't get her house up 

[no] 



Aunt Polly — Pioneer 

this fall. Ain't got men to haul her lumber." Mrs. 
Dunham Is a widow and newcomer, and Is living in 
a tent. My gaze touches upon the four muscular 
men and passes on out of the window to the herd of 
many horses grazing on the slopes, taking in, in the 
near foreground, wagons and harness for every 
purpose. Yet Mrs. Dunham must watch the on- 
coming of winter, and despair of getting her lumber 
hauled. Again I recall ''We don't," also certain 
sad and memorable experiences of my own first year, 
and am silent. One must let the Pioneers be kind in 
their own way. If Mrs. Dunham should succumb 
to the rigors of winter, not one of her new neighbors 
but would hitch up and drive twenty miles to the 
funeral, be it in a very blizzard. ("We do.") 
Moreover, the cattle country has its own way of 
looking after widowhood. It eliminates the con- 
dition. 



[Ill] 



XVIII 

"to-morrow and to-morrow and to-morrow" 

As the second autumn approached, my arrange- 
ments for seeding the new ground having been made, 
and a teaching position offering in Prineville, I 
decided to close Broadview for the winter and move 
into town. I procured a tent house and chicken 
yard on the edge of town and lived there throughout 
the teaching term, finding an excellent market for 
eggs and chickens. Each week-end I rode out to 
Broadview to sleep — a sixty-mile round trip, in 
which I delighted as often as a really good horse 
was available. About the fifteenth of October I 
found my grain all in. I am glad to chronicle that 
this feat was at last accomplished by one of the 
pioneers— -a son of Aunt Polly. About the first of 
November I found my chicken house in ruins and my 
milo maize evaporated — seemingly by the ever- 
thirsty atmosphere, since not a scrap or shadow of 
a leaf remained. On one Saturday night an early 
blizzard caught me on the homestead. All night I 
lay and shivered in my rocking tent house and all 
night my poor horse stamped and whinnied under a 
tree near by. With morning came the sunshine and 

[112] 




O 



H 




> 

O 
u 



3 



o 
bC 
c 



*^To-morrow and To-morrow and To-morrow" 

a glorious day for my return to town. On another 
occasion I faced one of those fierce periodic winds, 
which, while usually warm, it is well-nigh impossible 
to stand against. I crouched low upon my horse and 
clung to the saddle, while my good steed plodded 
slowly with bent head, and dust, in towering col- 
umns, met, enveloped, and passed us by. I learned 
that day how long is thirty miles at a foot pace. 
With the coming of real winter, I claimed my five 
months' leave of absence and saw Broadview no 
more until early spring. On that occasion I took a 
party of gay young teachers for a night's camp and 
greatly enjoyed their envious appreciation of my 
luxuriant first crop and of Broadview landscapes 
very lovely in the spring sunshine. 

On Easter morning, I being at Broadview for the 
week end, Mary Porter gave a little breakfast for 
me. Isaac Newton came over from the Basin. Ben 
Franklin rode over. The morning was very mild 
and lovely and we breakfasted before the open door 
from which we could look far down the Crooked 
River over the softening, uncertain-tinted landscape 
of spring. One at least of the breakfasters felt no 
hunger for church and cowl the better to celebrate 
the resurrection of Nature. Several of the party 
escorted me some miles on my way and I recall that 
we found the Easter rabbits — a wee brood of little 
jacks peeping out from under a clump of sage. 
Reason said destroy them in their early infancy, but 

[113] 



A Homesteader's Portfolio 

it was a day of life, not death, and they got no harm 
from us. 

With the close of school, I returned in earnest to 
the life of a farmer. Again the Incubator ran con- 
stantly. Again the garden — increased now to two 
acres to accommodate experiments with field peas 
and dry-land alfalfa. These two acres I worked by 
hand, obtaining excellent results except for that 
ever-increasing menace — the multiplying jack rabbit. 
I was a proud farmer when the first shiny automo- 
bile drew up to my door and the county agriculturist 
spent an hour going over my place with me, advising 
and commending, leaving when he departed a goodly 
store of seeds for further experimentation. The 
field peas particularly yielded an elegant crop, the 
solid low hedges of the vines meeting at last across 
the rows and intertwining, forming cool, dark ar- 
cades through which my multitudinous little chicks 
chirped and twittered, catching great numbers of 
Insects, themselves in rare safety from the preying 
hawks. 

It was a good summer and my first wheat crop 
came to maturity without mishap. This was no 
common experience — this first fruition of oft- 
blighted hopes. It inspired a mild rhapsody in my 
Journal : 

"The possession of ancestral acres is bound up 
with sentiment, yet an inheritance of virgin soil 

[114] 



"To-morrow and To-morrow and To-morrow" 

bestows an Inspiration of its own. How the cen- 
turies have toiled, through fire and frost and wind 
and wave and springing life and long decay to lay 
these fields so wide and deep ! None but the last 
word of agricultural science is worthy to govern 
their disturbance. They alone among the fields of 
earth have suffered neither neglect nor ignorance 
nor folly, neither over-fattening nor depletion. 
Reverent as Adam we should come to them and with 
far greater skill. 'Tis wonderful — a first crop — a 
greening field of one's own producing. One feels a 
new sympathy with the Creator. And, as It reaches 
up — the growing grain — how one loves to walk 
through it, to hear it rustle about one's knees, and 
to watch the wind waves ripple over it. Golden, 
ready for the harvest, it Is beyond words, and In the 
stack It is the most tangible of the fruits of industry 
— bread of life for man and beast and for many a 
winged sojourner and bright-eyed burrower in the 
soil I" 

A Puritan childhood, a youth nourished largely 
upon Emerson and the poets, and a purely profes- 
sional career possibly do not forewarn or forearm 
one quite adequately for practical business experi- 
ence. A tendency to an Idealistic view of human 
motives and human conduct was strengthened in the 
Pilgrim by all of that generous largeness and open- 
ness of Nature in her western phase — that high, 

[115] 



A Homesteader's Portfolio 

clear, sparkling countenance, daily familiarity with 
which would seem to compel frankness, openness, 
and generosity In the human soul. Beneath the 
juniper tree, It seemed Inevitable to take one's neigh- 
bors at their own valuation — to believe that what 
seemed guilelessness, simplicity, and disinterested 
benevolence was actually such. Time and the happy 
harvesting of my first crop had dulled the edge of 
earlier disappointments and dlsUlusionments, when 
the serpent once more raised his wily head. 

A new law for semi-arid regions had doubled the 
allowance of land to the homesteader and I had 
taken another desirable one hundred and sixty ad- 
joining the first. This necessitated the breaking of 
the second twenty acres. A young man — a new 
settler — riding in company with his young wife, 
paused at the tent house door and applied for the 
job. He was of childlike though muscular appear- 
ance and of docile mien. Immediately I warmed to 
the young pair. I had a fellow-feeling for all 
beginning-homesteaders. I presented the plowman 
with free pasture for his term of work — fenced 
pasture being of no negligible value in this over- 
stocked, short-grass country. I went with the con- 
tractor to the scene of action. I outlined the pro- 
jected field. I dwelt upon all essential details of the 
work desired. Then, in accordance with my idea of 
proper confidence in the employed, I left the matter 
in his hands. 

[ii6] 



"To-morrow and To-morrow and To-morrow" 

Months proved insufficient to reveal the full ex- 
tent of Mephistophelian intelligence that underlay 
this youth's bland and infantile expression. Arith- 
metic that would have fifteen acres equal twenty; 
geometry that would have a circle appear a square; 
mechanics that produced the effect of plowing with- 
out the reality; sagebrush clearing that left a clean 
surface while all the brush was retained in the con- 
spiring soil; so-called uprooted junipers skilfully 
struck from their clinging bases two inches beneath 
the surface of the soil. The harrow, the seeder, 
again the harrow upon the tender crop, the mower, 
the rake and the hay wagon — each contributed to 
exhibit the perfidy of the wily innocent, and left por- 
tions of themselves upon the field as witnesses to 
their Herculean struggles with the mountainous and 
snag-infested soil. 

Through the multiplication of examples, I became 
protestingly familiar with the methods of my first 
contractor. Perhaps it was a ripe crop needing the 
harvester, winter staring one in the face and no 
woodpile, hungry stock and a depleted stack yard. 
All inquiries would seem to fall upon deaf ears till 
— late in time — some gentle hypocrite would become 
solicitous. Magnifying the difficulties in his way, 
he would consent, from pure neighborliness, to lend 
a helping hand in my dilemma. And when the bill 
came in — a top-notch price — so great had been my 
need that I paid it with unquestioning gratitude. 

[117] 



A Homesteader's Portfolio 

Seed wheat was to be brought from town; the 
ground waited and frost threatened. A reluctant 
neighbor volunteered for the arduous task. He 
consumed four days in the sixty-mile round trip — 
representing that mercy to his team demanded that 
amount of time. Five dollars per day for man and 
team was the compensation asked. (These were 
ante-bellum prices.) It was the full price of the 
wheat. When I learned in a later and slightly wiser 
period of existence, that two of the four days had 
been squandered upon a spree in town, I set down 
among my mental notes: "Experience— ten dol- 
lars." 

An item in the Journal during this summer re- 
cords an event of some moment in our little circle : 

"Mary Porter slipped off the other day and mar- 
ried Andrew DeLong. They went for a little wed- 
ding journey to see her people near Chicago. An- 
drew has never been out of the county before, but I 
know the haughty eye that he turned upon each new 
experience. Ben Franklin had the new homesteaders 
to dine to-day in Mary's honor. Ben Franklin's 
little house is a model of neatness and convenience, 
and to see him make biscuit — "sour dough" of 
course — and fruit pudding, and cook his lavish din- 
ner to a turn while calmly acting the host and 
entertainer, was a reproach to some one I know, all 
indifferent to her housekeeping duties. Mary is in 

[ii8] 



"To-morrow and To-morrow and To-morrow" 

the seventh heaven, of course, and we all had to be 
patient with her idealizing of Andrew, whom we 
have regarded as just a common man. Both are 
elevated for the moment at least by each other's 
adoration, and have a shiny look about them that 
sobers us independents. 

^'Isaac Newton walked home with me in the late 
afternoon and I had some good talk with him such 
as I have with no one else. He is always absorbed 
in one philosophic problem or another. His favor- 
ite speculations have to do with telepathy. He had 
the indiscretion to propound some of these on one 
occasion in conversation with the 'Old Oregonian' 
and has gained thereby the reputation of being 'off 
his nut,' as I heard it expressed. No doubt at all 
but his transcendental ancestry is at work in him. 
The reputation referred to is not at all helped by 
his absent-mindedness. He started for Ben Frank- 
lin's one evening, got to thinking and lost himself. 
It was pitchy black when he began to look for land- 
marks, and, finding none, slept under a juniper or, 
rather, waked there until dawn. 'My, but I had 
some good thought that night,' he says. One thing 
that he never forgets is to do the opportune and 
thoughtful deed for his friends, as I can warmly 
testify." 

As early as August I had arranged with a neigh- 
bor who was yet to be tested to harrow my new 

[119] 



A Homesteader's Portfolio 

ground and to put in a forty-acre crop at a safe date 
in the fall. By mid-October I was growing anxious 
and called around from time to time to see him and 
to urge the danger of an early freeze. He had taken 
on one job after another and had been prevailed 
upon to see these through and to leave mine till the 
last. My explanation of much of my difficulty along 
this line is that the labor of men in the country is 
reciprocal — each man in helping another is establish- 
ing a definite bank account for himself in time of 
need, and, on the same principle, failure to accom- 
modate means retaliation when it may be most sorely 
felt. Frost came and came to stay. The ground 
was soon as hard as rock and once more my seed 
wheat lay through the winter — a sad reminder of 
fruitless planning. 

I had decided to stay by the place this second 
winter. I had, for the first time, my own wheat for 
the chickens and I had hoped that they would yield 
me sufficient income for my small needs. It was a 
rash decision. Mid-winter found me not only penni- 
less but in debt. The unplanted seed was to be paid 
for and the dallying neighbor pressed for payment 
for the partial work he had put in. This cropping 
experience taught me the worthlessness of a written 
contract without penalty. It was in black and white 
that my forty-acre seeding should be complete and 
ready for winter by October fifteenth. The party of 
the first part having failed absolutely in his agree- 

[120] 



^'To-morrow and To-morrow and To-morrow" 

ment, I had no redress, no compensation whatever 
for my cropless year, while he could collect wages 
for every day of labor that he had put in. 

Being penniless, I had no wood put in, but con- 
tinued to depend upon my own daily exertions, al- 
though available fuel was retreating always further 
from the fire, for even one lone homesteader can 
burn a huge amount of wood in the course of two 
years' time. I cut dry purshia and juniper just where 
I found it and carried it in sacks to the tent house. 
This went very well until, one midwinter morning, 
a foot of snow and zero temperature suggested the 
realities of life. For a solid month, while the mer- 
cury hovered about zero — for it was an exceptional 
winter — I dug my wood out of the steadily accumu- 
lating snow and carried it home upon my back for 
the scant comfort and respite of an hour's fire. On 
one dreadful day, I burned my chopping block, which 
was a relic of a present of a wagon load of pine that 
Ben Franklin and Andrew DeLong had brought me 
in the fall and that I had gaily and lavishly burned. 
On the next day — the blizzard continuing — I burned 
my ladder, and on the next would have sacrificed my 
steps, had not a blessed chinook blown up in the 
night, carried the snow away In foaming torrents, 
and laid bare many a rich and unsuspected treasure 
of fuel. 

My good friends knew little of my difficulties dur- 
ing this memorable month. The snow had isolated 

[121] 



A Homesteader's Portfolio 

us all in our rough back-country. The only family 
that passed and saw anything of my mining for fuel 
In the frozen drifts were connected with one of my 
faithless contractors and were bearing themselves 
haughtily on the principle that one bad turn deserves 
another. I knew what It was during this winter to 
lack two cents for postage. My letters had to await 
the pleasure of the hens, who had troubles of their 
own during the severe weather and almost ceased 
to lay. Toward spring a loan — that wolf in sheep^s 
clothing, whose day of reckoning is sure — gave im- 
mediate relief and spring opened once more glad and 
hopefully. 

Possibly, however, the hardships of the winter 
had temporarily weakened the fiber, for I find a 
pensive note in the Journal on the subject of love 
in Nature. I take it that this was before I had got 
to work with the hoe and before the first brood of 
biddies had peeped: 

"The Ice Is gone out of the river with a great up- 
roar and a bridge or two. Spring is suddenly upon 
us wholeheartedly and permanently. It would seem. 
Everywhere grass is greening, and purshia shrubs 
are alive with bees and heavy with perfume. The 
land is noisy with the bleating and lowing of herds 
being separated for summer pasture. Some are 
already on the mountains and the high challenge of 
their leaders comes to me now and again. Bluebirds 

[122] 



"To-morrow and To-morrow and To-morrow" 

complain and hover about my little house till I put 
up a dwelling for them, with sad misgivings as to 
Kitty Kat. Robins and flickers search out their 
nesting sites as near to human habitation as may be, 
daring cats in preference to hawks. Everywhere is 
vocal stir and movement, restlessness and change. 
And the heart of an old maid is restless, too, and her 
thoughts are long, long thoughts. For a few weeks 
the turbulence and excitement, the seeking and the 
loving — the high tide of individual existence — then 
the long, long peace and brooding and devotion — 
looking toward the natural end of this universal im- 
pulse — the repopulating of the earth. 

"And we, who call ourselves the lords of all, who 
alone among the tribes of earth may not freely fol- 
low the urge of spring, have we found a more excel- 
lent way? Does the lawful home fully justify the 
position of the voluntary celibates or the position 
of that vast body of brothers and sisters who do 
follow the urge of spring, but by stealth and with 
deception and with all the accompaniment of igno- 
miny, disgrace, and degradation that the law-abiding 
can heap upon them? Must they who fear the life- 
long bond — those to whom the thought that spon- 
taneity might become obligation is intolerable — be 
forever denied this spark of life, this high experi- 
ence of love and union, in order that the benedic- 
tion of the 'blessed condition' may rest upon the pro- 
saic multitude, uninspired and uninspiring? 

[123] 



A Homesteader's Portfolio 

"A few times in a lifetime comes a great friend to 
light our spirit with fresh flame from the altar — to 
be incorporated into the substance of our lives. 
Why not the same with love? And the fruit of 
spontaneous love — the little child? A precious 
jewel, to be of all things treasured." 

This was to be my most eventful summer. On 
my birthday in June came a check for fifty dollars 
from a good relative who had become interested in 
my curious way of life. It happened that just at 
this time a valuable Jersey cow whose record I well 
knew was offered at the unusual price of sixty-five 
dollars. Her owners were leaving the country and 
must dispose of her. 

My check spent only one night at Broadview, and, 
two or three days later, "Bossy" was driven within 
the confines of her new home, and stood knee deep in 
the June grass, eying me with habitual suspicion and 
defiance. 

I venture here, since Bossy became at once and 
continued to be so large a personage at Broadview, 
to include, intact, a brief biography that I was moved 
to write, some seasons later. If this disturbs too 
much the continuity of my simple tale, may I be 
forgiven. 



[124] 



XIX 

BOSSY AND PSALMMY 

When Bossy came to Broadview she was very 
near to maternity — a happy circumstance, I had 
thought — yet I was appalled at the tragic hopeless- 
ness of her eyes and the aloof distrustfulness of all 
her ways. Casting about for an explanation, I hit, 
I beheve, upon the true one. Bossy had been a 
town cow kept for milk alone, which means that the 
joy of motherhood had been for her of but a few 
hours' duration, followed by a sleepless day and 
night of crying out for that of which she had been 
bereft, and then dull acceptance of the fate decreed. 

Free roaming in a big pasture was a new experi- 
ence, and she quite evidently delighted in the most 
remote corners, the shade of the spreading junipers, 
and the hidden hollows among the boulders. It was 
a time when I felt I must keep a watchful eye upon 
her to see that all went well, so daily, in Bingo's 
wake, I sought her out, notwithstanding that our 
solicitude was received by her with every demonstra- 
tion of wrath and displeasure. Springing to her 
feet at our approach she would lower her head omi- 
nously and proceed to paw the earth and to envelop 

[125] 



A Homesteader's Portfolio 

herself in a fine cloud of volcanic ash as if, like cer- 
tain of the immortals, she were about to depart in- 
visibly. 

But the morning came at last when my eyes de- 
scried from afar a wee, wabbly, tan-colored mite at 
her side, upon which her head rested, while her 
watchful eyes were already upon us with an unwink- 
ing attention. Somewhat to my surprise she ac- 
cepted from the first, though without cordiality, my 
right to touch and handle the calf, but with a sudden 
fierce rush she bowled over poor old Bingo, thereby 
hurting his feelings irretrievably. He had been al- 
ways restrained and entirely considerate in his atti- 
tude toward her. The calf, to my great regret, was 
a little steer, yet with such promise of beauty and 
delightfulness that I promptly forgot his one dis- 
qualification. 

For four days Bossy was left in undisturbed pos- 
session, except that each day I drove her to the home 
enclosure and insisted upon making the calf's ac- 
quaintance for the purposes of the future. On the 
fifth day, I had decided, the separation such as it 
was to be must come, but, while I must do the prac- 
tical thing from the standpoint of an embryo dairy- 
man, Bossy should still have the privilege of access 
to that which she held so dear and the satisfaction 
of knowing of his welfare and contentment. ("It 
is a hymn," I had written my mother on the day of 
his birth. *'Call him Psalmmy then, southern pro- 

[126] 



Bossy and Psalmmy 

nunciatlon," she wrote back. So "Psalmmy" or 
Sammy he became.) On the fifth day then, Bossy 
being for precaution's sake both tied and corralled, 
I slipped a little halter on Psalmmy and gave him 
his first lesson In leading, he struggling and choking 
madly the while and "blatting" piteously, yet fol- 
lowing with wabbly Impotence In my wake till safely 
secured In his little straw-bedded pen beside Bossy's 
stall In the shed. 

And Bossy? She bellowed and pawed; she flung 
up her tall ; sh'e fell upon her knees and gouged the 
earth with the roots of her vanished horns; she 
flung ashes upon her head and, metaphorically, rent 
her garments from neck to hem. Trembling, I ap- 
proached and released her, having left the corral 
gate conveniently open for her exit. Like a stam- 
peded buffalo, with nose to ground, she dashed on 
the trail of the vanished calf, entering the shed a 
whirlwind of wrath and tragedy. But there was 
little Psalmmy all unhurt, trotting about his pen and 
reaching his little wet nose to her, his whole silky 
little self quite within reach of her comforting 
tongue. 

Thus a most contented season was inaugurated. 
The regular mllklngs satisfied Bossy's most urgent 
physical need, and Psalmmy's immediate presence, 
where he might still be licked and loved, satisfied 
her mother heart. There was plenty of milk and 
cream for Psalmmy and for me. Bossy's eyes grew 

[127] 



A Homesteader's Portfolio 

soft and gentle, her attitude trustful. Autumn rains 
kept the grass growing and Bossy allowed herself to 
wander farther and farther from the shed till at last 
she would remain out all day, though subject to fits 
of panic when she heard the bark of a strange dog 
or unknown voices about the barn. Then she would 
come crashing through the sagebrush with a low 
and ominous bellowing and all the old apprehension 
in her eyes. Even after a quiet day of grazing, when 
she came over the last ridge and within sight of the 
barn, she would break into a run and, with murmur- 
ings solicitous and low, seek the goal of her desire- 
little Psalmmy, chewing contentedly on his alfalfa, 
eager but not suffering for her caresses. 

And as for Psalmmy and me? I had never raised 
a little calf. From the time that I first felt the ur- 
gent curl of his little tongue about my fingers in the 
pail of warm milk till, in the days of his maturity, 
he would still lay his head upon my shoulder, stretch- 
ing his great neck that I might caress its velvet folds, 
the experience was a delight. Beautiful to ideality 
with his great fawn's eyes, his coat soft as a seal's, 
his exquisite harmonies of tans and browns, and his 
winning, confidently affectionate nature, he stood, 
moreover, for health and peace and quietness and 
substantiality. He was one of those animals with 
whom Whitman desired to turn and live. 

For the first weeks of his early Infancy Bossy 
never failed to turn from her newly-filled manger to 

[128] 



Bossy and Psalmmy 

watch the process of mllk-drlnking, intent but satis- 
fied, and gradually she developed an affection for me 
because I cared for Psalmmy. When Bossy was gone 
to pasture, Psalmmy followed me about the place, 
constantly bumping into me in his eagerness to keep 
close, and planting his sharp little hoofs in the tops 
of my low shoes with excruciating effect. When I 
went indoors, he would bump against the door as I 
disappeared and would remain for some moments 
sucking the door-knob, his great eyes rolled upward 
to the little window in the door at which I paused to 
look down upon him. Very early in his life he de- 
veloped a note of greeting with which he never 
failed to acknowledge my return after any excur- 
sion. Discovering my approach, he would run to 
the nearest point that intervening fences permitted, 
then would brace his feet, hump his little back, draw 
in his chin, bow his neck, and, with a seemingly tre- 
mendous effort, would bring forth a guttural 
"b-a-a-a-w!" that moved me both to tears and 
laughter. 

One day in the late winter Psalmmy slipped a bar 
in his pen and I returned from an excursion to find 
him sporting somewhat drunkenly in the wake of his 
mother as she sauntered about the place. It was 
then that I discovered that Psalmmy was not 
weaned, as I had fondly trusted. His lips were 
foamy with the amplitude of the beverage in which 
he had indulged and, quite evidently, Bossy had re- 

[129] 



A Homesteader's Portfolio 

served nothing for my personal needs. Upon an- 
other and another occasion the same condition was 
demonstrated and it became evident that, with the 
coming of spring and pasture, some method of forci- 
ble prohibition must be inaugurated. I decided upon 
a basket muzzle and presently turned the two out 
together on the tender grass. For several days all 
went well. Psalmmy came dutifully to his feeding 
pail for his just portion, and Bossy filled my flowing 
bowl with yellowing richness. 

One evening I was delayed at the milking 
hour. Psalmmy became ravenous. Bossy impatient. 
Through experimentation it was discovered that If 
Psalmmy turned his head upside down the muzzle 
would fall backward, leaving his mouth unhampered. 
This, of course, was the end of the efficacy of the 
basket muzzle. I then, not without keen regret and 
self-reproach, procured a spiked one. Once more, 
for a day or two, the milk was saved. Then I came 
upon the two in the pasture. Bossy chewing the cud 
of supreme content, Psalmmy, having learned to lay 
the spikes so skillfully and with such infinite delibera- 
tion against Bossy's tender flesh as to cause her no 
inconvenience, imbibing with closed eyes and deep- 
drawn sighs of satisfaction. I amplified the defen- 
sive armor with fiendish barbed wire entanglements 
and mighty nails. I devised hitherto unpatented 
muzzles and barricades. I tried to envelop Bossy 
In a protective covering. I applied a paste of salve 

[130] 



Bossy and Psalmmy 

and a saturated solution of red pepper. My efforts 
were as chaff before the wind of their Inflamed de- 
sire. They endured all hardness. Psalmmy smacked 
his lips over the fiery sauce that was the condition 
of his repast. 

Nothing remained but to put a fence between 
them. This I did, once more with compassion and 
remorse. For a day or two they lowed mournfully 
to one another through the bars. Then they con- 
spired again. Regularly at luncheon time Bossy 
drew near to the fence, and Psalmmy, with his nose 
thrust through a convenient gap, drank long and 
deep. I tried another fence. I tried another pas- 
ture. I tried the government reserve twenty miles 
distant. Always sundown of a day sooner or later 
arrived at brought Bossy and Psalmmy peacefully 
home together. Bossy released of her rich and ample 
load, Psalmmy rolling In his gait and stupid to In- 
ebriety. No wires were too closely set, no gate too 
high, no location too distant for the Ingenuity or the 
valor of his ruling passion. 

"Beef him!" counseled my neighbors brutally. 
*'It's all he's good for, anyway. What are you 
keeping him for?" What was I keeping him for? 
Theory and practice were all against me. Yet, when 
Psalmmy humped his back and uttered his joyous 
"b-a-a-a-w" at my approach, or laid his silken cheek 
to mine and I felt the warm folds of his neck, I was 
weak as water in the hands of fate. Anyway, he 

[131] 



A Homesteader's Portfolio 

was not yet two years old. Even practical stock 
men kept calves that length of time, and, besides, I 
was counting upon the coming of another calf for 
the effectual weaning of Psalmmy. 

Vain hope. For a brief season Psalmmy did not 
suck. Then, when the new calf had been relegated 
to Psalmmy's little pen. Bossy took Psalmmy once 
more to her heart and they strolled the fields to- 
gether. It was a sight to make the most melancholy 
hold their sides with laughter — Bossy chewing the 
cud, her dreamy eyes seeing, as it were, "some far- 
off divine event," and Psalmmy — great, lusty fellow 
that he was, quite outclassing her In size — stooping 
for his native draught with all the ardor and, at the 
same time, meek dependence of a calfling. In the 
end, I built a Psalmmy-proof fence, raising it higher 
and higher till he was at last outdone. 



[132] 



XX 

FLY 

Only a few weeks after the advent of Bossy an- 
other equally momentous addition was made to my 
family circle. Entries in the Journal poorly suggest 
the enthusiasm engendered thereby: 

"This has been a day of days. I've bought a 
horse ! I can't realize it yet, can't believe it I I have 
to go to the window every few minutes to see her 
grazing there — my beautiful white mare ! I have 
to open my door and gloat over my russet saddle and 
bridle hanging on the porch. By virtue of my school 
salary I have been able to bank my egg money for 
some time past, looking toward some special invest- 
ment. There are a dozen needs for which it seemed 
equally appropriate. At last count I had an even 
fifty dollars. I hadn't let myself entertain for a 
moment the thought of achieving a horse as yet. 

"This morning my neighbor, Myles Nash, rode in 
while I was feeding the chicks. I have always 
greatly admired his mare, 'Fly,' and have had sev- 
eral memorable rides on her. She is a broncho, but 
exceptionally well-broken and of a very friendly and 



A Homesteader's Portfolio 

affectionate nature. She has beautiful, great eyes 
as expressive as a human's. 

"Myles dismounted and handed me the bridle. *I 
want to sell you my horse/ he said. 

" What's the matter with her?' I asked. 

*'He looked teased at that and I was sorry. He is 
one of the salt of the earth, and my good friend. 
*The matter's with me,' he said. 'I'm called away. 
Important changes and matters for me to settle. 
There's just no telling when, if ever, I shall come 
back. I want you to take Fly for her sake and 
yours too, if you'll let me say so, and I need the 
money. Even fifty for horse, saddle, bridle, and 
blanket just as they stand.' I gasped. One couldn't 
touch either of the first two for twice that sum. 

" 'Done !' I said as soon as I got my breath. I 
went into the house and made out a check. Myles 
unsaddled Fly and turned her out, then drove a 
huge nail under the shelter of the porch and hung 
up the trappings. He's more tender of the latter 
than ever I shall be. After he had gone I sat down 
on the steps, literally weak from excitement. I was 
hot all over and my heart was beating inconven- 
iently. 

"Fly has ushered in a new heaven and a new earth. 
She has given wings to my spirit and motive power 
to my most serious activities. For three years I 
have been carrying a good part of my supplies on my 
back — often thirty to forty pounds — for three and a 

[134] 



Fly 

half miles. Of course an occasional passing wagon 
has helped me out. For the same length of time I 
have cut and carried in sacks most of my wood, with 
the exception of a slight investment in the winter. 
All of my neighborhood errands have, of necessity, 
been done on foot. I have become a sort of gray- 
hound, often covering ten to fifteen miles in the day's 
incidentals. 

"But now my weary journeyings have become a 
flight — a joy and stimulus — a mere expression of my 
delight in the homestead life. And, with a beast of 
burden, I unload my firewood at the door — three or 
four times my accustomed load and I as fresh as a 
daisy. I intend to plan for some light cultivating 
machinery that will save much of the back-breaking 
work in my two-acre garden, also for a light wagon 
for my hauling." 



[135] 



XXI 

THE COMPANIONS 

When tradition gave way to science, and evolu- 
tion took the place of special creation, the human 
race came into a new heritage. Man found himself, 
in no figurative sense, "heir of the ages." His sym- 
pathies began to expand, and became commensurate 
with the universe. A vast brotherhood with other 
species became evident, and, very slowly, his world- 
old arrogance became modified. If he possessed 
qualities that had made him dominant over all other 
races, still not in all qualities did he excel. Very 
slowly he has come to see that certain admirable 
traits may be better represented by the dog under 
the table than by his gluttonous master. Not only 
must we consider the superiority of the dog's senses 
and of his muscular response, but no human can rival 
his sympathetic Intuition or the depth and faithful- 
ness of his affections. 

To those who have consciously come into this new 
heritage the companionship of animals is enhanced 
in value. We value love as love, sympathy as sym- 
pathy, and the thousand responses of our furred and 
feathered friends become of interest and value. 

[136] 



The Companions 

When Whitman declared his half-formed Intention 
to ''turn and live with the animals" he was In poetic 
mood, yet very literally can It be done with profit and 
rest to the soul. Poor Nebuchadnezzar — his skull 
dented with the weight of the crown, and his spirit 
harassed by the Irksomeness and folly of his state — 
found In a seven-year exile with the beasts of the 
field, and In the blessings of the dew of heaven, the 
cure of his soul. 

People say to me that it must be desolate, living 
alone at Broadview. I reply that I am not alone. I 
am conscious of no lack — at least in the region of 
our simpler and more fundamental thoughts and 
feelings — of reciprocal understanding and sympa- 
thy. To and fro at my side on all of my busy ex- 
cursions about the farm, trot Bingo and Kitty Kat — 
interested observers of all my activities, happy in 
their own digressive explorations and fruitful hunts, 
ever ready In my moments of rest with eloquent com- 
panionship and tender caress, drawing close with 
me at the close of day by the fireside or on the door- 
stone, sharing the peace of evening after the busy 
day. My chickens gather In little groups about me 
as I work here and there, engaging me In cheery 
conversation, essaying little familiarities and friendly 
overtures, even performing certain stunts with self- 
conscious gravity, delighting in personal attention. 
Fly — ^joy of my life, swift, tireless companion of my 

[137] 



A Homesteader's Portfolio 

larger adventures — accommodates her browsing to 
my movements, keeping me In sight with that un- 
demonstrative friendliness characteristic of her kind, 
^ossy — silky-coated Jersey, producer of foamy milk 
and golden butter — with all her impatient head- 
tossings and waywardness under control, still feeds 
the home end of the pasture quite into the ground, 
rather than follow better grazing out of sight of our 
domestic circle. 

There is that In the gentle response of these calm 
and friendly creatures that soothes the spirit and 
leaves the mind free for its own excursions. Not 
so with the harassing companionship of non-under- 
standing humans. The cheerful care-freedom of the 
animals is contagious. It harmonizes with all out- 
of-doors, and engages one's own spirit in the unap- 
prehensive activities of Nature. All Nature Is 
cheerful till calamity befalls, and the calamities of 
Nature are short and sharp, and cloud the heavens 
of the immediate victims only. 



[138] 



XXII 

THE SURVIVAL OF THE FITTEST 

A SAWMILL had been set up in the Maury Moun- 
tains only six miles distant. It was employing a 
good-sized force and gave me a home market for 
eggs. Now that I had stock I needed a barn, and 
my own little domicile was going to pieces. During 
this summer I traded enough eggs for lumber for 
house and barn, and two of the immortals in my 
grateful memory — Andrew DeLong and Ben Frank- 
lin — suspended their own operations long enough to 
erect them for me. These neighborhood offices were, 
of course, on a business basis, but in the early years 
on a homestead a man's time never goes begging and 
I had learned to be warmly grateful for all such 
service. 

My little house was of one room, twenty by 
twelve, facing east, the front, which was the long 
way of the room, having a broad porch. Upon this 
porch, in the center, opened a double door, and on 
each side of the door was a window two by four, the 
long way being horizontal and the window letting 
down against the wall on hinges. Thus, on summer 
days, it was possible to open the whole front of the 

[139] 



A Homesteader's Portfolio 

house on to the shady porch. Below, set in this 
shadowy frame, extended the bright valley and be- 
yond this my amethyst mountains glowed in ever- 
changing hues. Each end of the room had a square, 
hinged window high in the wall. One end of the 
long room I arranged with shelves and kitchen con- 
veniences. The other held my cot, table, and book 
shelves. One passed imperceptibly from kitchen to 
parlor and there were no darkening and cramping 
partitions. Often, on a moonlight night, I thought 
the proportions of my room like a section of a par- 
lor car. I fancied I could think better in my bright 
and airy quarters. They seemed to bestow a new 
fund of hope and imagination. The little barn was 
just large enough for roomy quarters for cow and 
calf and for two horses. Hay in this climate needs 
no shelter, and my stack was close at hand. I was 
thus at rest in the certainty that Fly and Bossy would 
be sheltered from the "cauld, cauld blast" and it 
was not very long, as the Journal records, before 
shelter was needed. 

"I have been very watchful of my Fly of late, in- 
sisting that she sleep under cover, and providing her 
with a thick, clean, straw bed. This morning, when 
I went out to feed, there stood a brand-new black 
horse, exceedingly diminutive, at the manger, ac- 
tually nibbling hay like an old stager. Fly was in a 
tumult of emotion. Her eyes blazed when I ap- 

[140] 




The Serpent in the Garden 




The House that Eggs Built 



The Survival of the Fittest 

preached, and, when Bingo barked at a sage rat 
across the yard, she fell into violent trembling. She 
tried to keep her nose in contact with the funny, 
wabbly mite that is her daughter, and a time she had 
of it, for it is already as Hvely as a cricket. The colt 
showed fear of me and it took courage to go into 
the stall and handle it, with Fly's fiery eyes upon me. 
I knew I must establish my right to do so, and, like 
Bossy, Fly did not question it. I think it is their 
consciousness of dependence that leads them to com- 
mend their young to us, however great their anxiety 
may be." 

A later item records the progress of my acquaint- 
ance with the latest comer: 

"I have never dreamed of the sweetness of a little 
colt, have never thought it particularly attractive 
among baby creatures. But my little 'Babe' — Vel- 
vet Babe, I want to call her, for no seal was ever 
softer — is simply irresistible. She pricks up her ears 
and runs to me at sight, sounding her shrill little 
whinny — the same as when she sees her mother ap- 
proaching. She lays her little silky cheek against 
mine when I stoop to pet her and leaves it there in 
the tenderest caress. She will be a beautiful sad- 
dler, they tell me, and I shall have the joy of rais- 
ing her for myself. Her blackness is fast disappear- 
ing. She is now a light maltese, and they say she 
will be white. Every white horse begins life as a 

[141] 



A Homesteader's Portfolio 

black one, I am assured. I have no way of verifying 
this." 

Two other Journal notes of this year deal with 
some very real problems that the homesteader was 
up against — the jack rabbit and the mad coyote — 
and the thoughts on the world in general that they 
inspired. 

"The ^problem of evil' in the theological sense 
has never concerned me greatly, nor have I ever had 
a proper ^sense of sin' — as certain dear Presby- 
terian friends have endeavored to make clear to me. 
I have always been conscious of an urge toward 
goodness and harmony rather than toward unright- 
eousness, and sin has seemed to me to be rather the 
result of a conflict of perfectly justifiable aims and 
tendencies than of total depravity at the source. Yet 
the problem of evil in another sense has given me 
many a bad hour. That feature of the world's or- 
ganization according to which otherwise lovable and 
gracious creatures must 'eat each other up,' with 
all due accompaniments of agony, terror, and fe- 
rocity, cuts me to the very quick. And especially 
the necessity laid upon us lords of creation to 'rise, 
slay, and eat' or, at the very least, to rise and slay 
or be ourselves devoured remains for me unrecon- 
cilable with our capacity for pity and tenderness 

[142] 



The Survival of the Fittest 

and with our ability to put ourselves in the other fel- 
low's place even in the case of other species than our 
own. 

*^For years I was vegetarian, rather in obedience to 
feeling than principle, and I eat meat always under 
protest against the quality of mercy lodged within 
me. In fact the cruelties of life have darkened the 
world for me since my earliest recollection. My 
preoccupation with the fate of the sweet turtle 
doves, the little first lambs of the flock, the gentle 
heifers whose calves were tied at home while they 
^ascended (lowing) to the hill of the Lord,' bear- 
ing the ark of the covenant, there to spill their own 
blood to placate Jehovah for the sins of men, — this 
preoccupation it was perhaps that prevented me 
(as a child) from learning to love the Lord my God, 
as in that connection depicted, with all my heart and 
mind and soul and strength. However, to come 
down to this year of our Lord nineteen-blank and 
to the ranchers' situation in Crook County Oregon: 
"As I sit before my window on this late autumn 
afternoon and look down across sage-covered slopes 
toward the river valley, little dark objects appear 
and disappear, scurrying in every direction, and I 
know that Brer Jack Rabbit is only waiting for the 
fall of twilight in order that he and all his kin may 
assemble about our wheat and alfalfa stacks and 
thresh and feed with an appetite truly phenomenal. 

[143] 



A Homesteader's Portfolio 

For a thousand years, presumably, this vast plateau 
which is now my home has been covered with sage- 
brush and bunch grass and sprinkled with juniper 
trees, and has supported a normal population of 
jack rabbits and sage rats. Then suddenly comes 
man with his alien stock, his dogs and his cats, his 
new and succulent crops, with their admixture of 
weed seeds and germs of Insect life. And, lo, this 
quiet and harmonious state of nature is all in tur- 
moil. 

"Sage and bunch grass give place to wheat and 
oats and varied vegetables. Strange creatures wan- 
der upon the ancient hills. The coyote tribe samples 
young lamb and thereupon begins to wax and grow 
fat and Incidentally to prepare the way for its own 
extermination. Hawks become delirious over the 
chicken yards and neglect the young rabbits and 
sage rats. Rabbits and sage rats, largely relieved 
from the depredations of their ancient enemies, and 
suddenly supplied with new and luscious herbage in 
unlimited quantity, flourish and multiply beyond all 
reason. Short-sighted man spends the early years 
of his residence In feeding these Inoffensive litde 
denizens of the brush and in exterminating their 
enemies as rapidly as possible. Brer Rabbit and Sis 
Sage rat sample the grains and cast their vote In 
favor of wheat. They taste all products of the 
garden and, though finding them universally edible, 
cultivate a taste for lettuce and young peas and 

[144] 



The Survival of the Fittest 

beans and sweet corn. Then, one morning, man 
awakes and finds that he can no longer raise wheat 
and garden products except with the greatest vigi- 
lance. The growth of each day is consumed nightly. 
Even his root crops, untouched through the early 
summer, are dug and devoured as autumn comes on. 
With the coming of winter the rabbits are with him 
still. They surround his stacks and thresh out 
enough grain each night to feed several head of 
stock. 

"Rabbits have become what is termed 'a fearful 
pest' to the farmer. In my own case they ate one 
sixth of my crop last year, this year one third. They 
also did away with all fruitfulness in my garden, 
although I literally slept as well as waked with it. 
I held converse with myself and decided that I was 
showing myself unfit In the struggle for existence. I 
bought a "twenty-two" and set about defending my 
rights. 

"The rabbits were very tame. That was the worst 
of it; they did not fear me. I had no trouble in 
knocking a few over. They looked surprised, were 
still a moment, then rolled over in convulsions and 
were still forever. It was a new and gruesome ex- 
perience — being responsible for that. But in one 
case I broke a leg. This little victim also looked 
surprised and puzzled. He hopped a few paces, 
stopped and examined himself, and then hopped 
away into the brush, the ruined limb flopping and 

[145] 



A Homesteader's Portfolio 

dangling behind him. I tried, but was unable to 
find him, to save him from the cruel fate I had 
visited upon him. In another instance, I broke a 
back. The victim tried to drag himself off the field, 
pawing desperately, his hind quarters entirely para- 
lyzed. When I approached to end his sufferings 
with a charge of shot, he regarded me with bulging 
eyeballs and the trembling of hopeless terror. And 
I? I was filled with horror and amazement at the 
thing that I had done. I shall remember those two 
rabbits as long as life is mine. Still I use poison, a 
remedy that Is swift and deadly, and merciful chiefly 
to myself. 

"The method of destruction most in vogue is to 
draw a woven wire fence around the alfalfa stacks, 
arranging narrow chutes, easy of entrance but diffi- 
cult of exit. When snow is on the ground, rabbits 
crowd into these little corrals in unbelievable num- 
bers. In the morning, the rancher and his hired 
hands, with clubs and dogs, enter the enclosure for 
a bit of rare sport, laying about them right and left, 
afterward scalping the prostrate creatures for the 
bounty, recking not whether they be dead or alive. 
One of my neighbors thus killed three thousand in 
one snowy season. While I? I buy the poor man- 
gled bodies at one cent each — four or five pounds of 
solid meat — and cook them for my biddies, making 
a wonderful bran and rabbit stew, magical in its 
effect upon egg production. A young jack rabbit is 

[146] 



The Survival of the Fittest 

very good eating, but, largely I imagine, because of 
the abundance of beef and mutton, partly too as a 
consequence of a peculiar disease found among the 
mature rabbits, rabbit flesh is very unpopular in the 
ranch country. A rabbit eater would expose himself 
to a goodly measure of contempt. 

"The 'rabbit drive' is older than the corral 
method and is a favorite pastime. The neighbor- 
hood unites — usually on a Sunday — decides upon 
some favorable place — usually a gully — as the end 
of the drive, and incloses this in an angle of woven 
wire with sides extending out a good distance in the 
form of a chute. Then the country Is beaten up by 
a wide half circle of beaters, the rabbits being driven 
toward and into the chute. The enclosure of wire Is 
then made complete and the clubbing and dogging 
follow, as in the case of the hay stack procedure. 
A big dinner at some near-by rancher's constitutes 
'the end of a perfect day.' A rabbit cries very piti- 
fully and humanly when hurt and not killed. It is 
said that It was diflicult at first to get men to do 
the clubbing because of this feature and the exceed- 
ing gentleness of the animal. All such qualms are 
now, however, a thing of the past. The privilege is 
much sought after." 

The Journal account of the mad coyote follows: 
"One day last autumn, a man walking through 

[147] 



A Homesteader's Portfolio 

the timber to Maury's mill, only ten miles from 
here, was attacked from behind by a coyote, which 
sprang upon him and fastened its teeth in his hand. 
Running on before him In a dazed sort of way, the 
animal preceded him to the mill settlement where it 
met its death. Recalling that coyotes had been said 
to go mad, the man with the Injured hand sent the 
head of the beast to the Pasteur Institute In Port- 
land, received In a day or two the diagnosis of 
rabies and Immediately went down himself for treat- 
ment. 

"That was the beginning. Coyotes, which are 
generally very wary, began to appear In barns and 
dooryards in broad daylight. They fought with the 
dogs, chased women into the house, and lay down 
upon the premises till the men of the family came 
home and shot them. They were killed In the main 
streets of sizable towns. They came down to feed- 
ing grounds where stock Is herded for the winter and 
bit numerous cows and calves In the very presence of 
the keepers of the herd. Dogs, cows, and calves 
soon developed hydrophobia. In one district, school 
was closed out of consideration for the safety of the 
children. 

"A resident of the Basin, a woman who works 
much in her garden and poultry yard, was one day 
alarmed by a great uproar in the house, which was 
supposed to be empty. She called her husband from 
the field and a rifle happening to be at hand, the two 

[148] 



The Survival of the Fittest 

waited outside for what might eventuate. Presently, 
at an upstairs window, appeared a coyote leaping up 
and biting at the sash. He was easily shot through 
the window. He had jumped into a downstairs win- 
dow and had made his way through the house, leav- 
ing marks of his teeth upon the woodwork. In old 
witch-haunted New England, 'bewitched' wolves 
did these same daring and unusual things. Thus 
science Is explaining one more superstition. 

*'Loss of stock and danger to human beings have 
become so serious that the legislature has been ap- 
pealed to for a five-dollar bounty on the coyote. 
This will probably be allowed. The youth of this 
neighborhood, who would much rather hunt than 
eat, will presently be lining their pockets with five- 
dollar-gold pieces — fruit of their hunting and trap- 
ping industry. Since the hide of a coyote is worth 
two or three dollars in itself, the total profit will 
be considerable. Poor hapless coyote !" 

The Journal also contains this snake story: 

"Every summer, at just about haying time, rattle- 
snakes appear in my dooryard. Perhaps they are 
turned out of the hay fields by the mower. Per- 
haps in the intense heat of midsummer they are 
seeking water. Last evening, I was on my way for 
a pail of water when I heard the familiar warning. 
Just to the right of the path, under a clump of 
sage, were two large rattlesnakes. They paid no 

[149] 



A Homesteader's Portfo 

attention to me after the first signal, but were wholly 
engrossed with each other. With heads raised per- 
haps a foot from the ground, they faced each other 
in some sort of duel — whether friendly or deadly I 
was unable to determine. They swung to and fro, 
feinted, recovered, struck, wound their necks to- 
gether into a cord, extricated themselves, returned to 
position and repeated the performance. I watched 
them until I was weary, and, just as I turned away, 
a smaller and darker rattler ran from the other side 
of the path and slipped under the two contestants 
as if for concealment or protection. Were they 
two gallants contesting for the third — a lady?" 

Did I kill them? — the inevitable question. No. 
*'De Lawd give me no mind to." 

Just after the snake story, I find so typical an 
item that, in spite of its irrelevance, I venture to slip 
it in. It is, at least, not immaterial. *'The Nashes 
called to-day and left me a box of gorgeous new 
apples and a sheaf of poppies." My book should 
be illumined with an apple and poppy design, repre- 
senting the cheer of these good friends who have 
meant so much to me. 



[ISO] 



XXIII 

THE WITNESS 

It was a morning in early May — a day that had 
arisen early, for the long, long days of our northern 
summer were rapidly coming on. My pasture slopes 
were fragrant as a peach orchard with the golden 
bloom of purshia, and the air was humming with 
the song of bees. Bossy had failed to make her ap- 
pearance at the milking hour and I was, not reluc- 
tantly, strolling among her favorite hiding places 
to seek her out. To my surprise I came at length 
to the outer pasture gate without discovering her, 
found this gate hanging open, and Bossy's unmis- 
takable track passing through. She had a little nick 
in the right fore-hoof from some early injury that 
made her track easy of identification. I recalled now 
that Psalmmy's clear tenor trumpeting (he was in 
the adjoining pasture) had waked me at dawn. 
Here doubtless was the explanation of his uneasi- 
ness. It was unusual for Bossy to wander. She was 
a home-loving creature and, besides, feed was much 
better in her own pasture than outside. 

I followed the track for some little distance in 
the direction of the highway. Fortunately there had 

[151] 



A Homesteader's Portfolio 

been a rain the night before and the tracks were 
plain. All at once the tracks were supplemented by 
those of a horse following and overlying them. I 
followed both to the highway and for some rods 
along it. Then I turned about and followed the 
horse tracks back. The horse had been tied to a 
juniper at a little distance from the pasture gate 
and, with some difficulty, I made out a human trail 
passing under the fence Into the pasture. Bossy had 
been stolen ! My wrath, as this conviction forced 
itself upon me, surprised myself. I was In a blind 
fury as I raced back for Fly and started in pursuit. 
For twenty-five miles I followed the tracks without 
difficulty. The thief had been In haste or he would 
have avoided the telltale roadway. At the few 
homes along the route no one had seen the cow and 
her driver. She had passed in the night. Only at 
the last house before I reached the village an old 
man had seen them at dawn. 

"Hot she was," he volunteered, "about give out. 
He'd been drivin' hard." I ground my teeth. 

It was not to the village but to an institution in 
its outskirts that the nicked hoof print led me. Here 
was an assembly of pens and sheds with fences 
adorned by numerous hides all comparatively fresh. 
It was with a chilling apprehension that I ran my 
eye along the ghastly row in search of a golden tan. 
It did not appear but. Inside the last pen, well sup- 
plied with food and drink, recumbent and placid for 

[152] 



The Witness 

the moment, with the relief of rest, here was my 
Bossy. No one was at home in the slaughter house 
shanty. I dared neither to leave the cow here nor 
to await the return of the butcher. Indignant and 
rebellious, Bossy once more took the road and we 
sought the justice of the peace. 

Too plainly the justice was preoccupied. There 
were larger matters on his slate than this interpo- 
lated case of a lost cow. A woman, too — a single 
woman — always a nuisance — no business to be trying 
to handle things that belong to a man's province. 
He put me off irritably. Yes, I might wait, but he 
was very busy. He rose presently to close the office, 
and told me grudgingly, neither turning his eyes in 
my direction nor removing his cigar, that it would 
be impossible to handle the case to-night. In the 
morning he would get a jury together. What time? 
Ten o'clock. Had I witnesses? Could I prove 
identification? He shook his head disgustedly at 
my replies. Yes, there was a pound behind the of- 
fice. He would lock the cow in there. Feed? Cer- 
tainly not. I might have some brought if I wished. 
I did. I brought it myself and a pail of water from 
the livery three blocks away where Fly was stabled. 

I found a restaurant and had some supper and a 
cup of tea which cheered me slightly, but I was very 
weary and blue. To my vision Bossy was already 
delivered over to the butcher and led away. I went 
to bed, but could not sleep. I was trying to hit upon 

[153] 



A Homesteader's Portfolio 

some witness that would be of use. Since Bossy's 
coming no one but myself had handled her, and a 
dairy cow in a beef country arouses less than no in- 
terest. I doubted whether I had a neighbor who 
could swear to her identity. 

Toward morning I was awakened — electrically 
awakened — ^by that same high-pitched trumpeting 
that had roused me on the previous morning. I was 
dreaming, of course, but instantly I knew what I 
should do. I dressed at once and in the gray dawn 
stole out and sought the telephone. I ate a hearty 
breakfast and strolled out into the town. Confi- 
dence had replaced anxiety. By ten o'clock, how- 
ever, I was nervous. My witness had not come. 
Too well I knew for what difficulties and delays that 
witness might be responsible. 

The trial came on promptly. The jury were busy 
men, none too tolerant of this paltry interruption. 
*'To the butcher with the old cow!" I seemed to 
hear them saying, "and let us go our ways." I was 
permitted to tell my tale. The butcher told his. 
The latter had bought an unbranded cow at a good 
market price. The owner had received cash pay- 
ment and had gone his ways. There was a method 
tested and approved in the stock country for safe- 
guarding live stock. Let him who ignored the cus- 
tom of the country reap the consequences. An un- 
branded cowl 

[154] 



The Witness 

The jurymen were with him to a man. I could 
feel it. Alas, my stock was very low. My lawyer 
whispered a question. Did the cow know me? Was 
she friendly? I must have looked blank. The in- 
equalities of Bossy's disposition came heavily to my 
mind. 

*'ril try/^ I answered. He conferred with the 
justice. The justice nodded. He gave an order. 
We would adjourn to the pound. One glance as- 
sured me that Bossy was in her blackest mood. She 
was unmilked and hungry and far from her beloved. 
As of old, the world was her enemy. 

''Bossy"? I appealed quaveringly, approaching on 
leaden feet. Bossy brandished her imaginary horns 
at me and retreated. All the moroseness of her 
earlier days was in her mien. 

"Look at that now I" exclaimed the triumphant 
butcher. "Never seed her before. Don't know her 
from the man in the moon." I stood literally with 
hanging head before my condemners. Then some- 
thing brought us all to attention. A truck had en- 
tered the yard behind the high board fence of the 
pound. And suddenly was heard a clear tenor 
trumpeting. 

"My witness !" I exclaimed jubilantly. 

Bossy's sagging muscles snapped into tension and 
expectancy. Her eyes glowed. She threw up her 
head and bellowed and started on a run across the 

[iSS] 



A Homesteader's Portfolio 

yard. Simultaneously, over the high board gate, an 
apparition! Psalmmy! Light as a bird, ardent as 
the desert lover! Mother and son rushed together. 
Meeting in mid-career, they did a waltz or two in 
the adjustment of their momenta. But Psalmmy's 
dripping lips had already seized upon one of the 
swollen teats. A milky slobber already bathed his 
face. In calflike haste he relieved each teat in turn 
of its surplus and returned to the attack. His great 
form rocked and trembled in the fervor of his pas- 
sion. And Bossy? Her dreamy eyes gazing heav- 
enward, she was already chewing the cud of sublime 
content. 

The bored jury had come to attention with the 
very first exchange of greeting between mother and 
son. Stockmen, every one of them, they felt some- 
thing was in the air. Amazement superseded ex- 
pectancy. A ripple of amusement followed that. 
Psalmmy, half-way through his meal, became con- 
scious of spectators. He withdrew his lips from the 
font and turned his great countenance upon the jury, 
imbued with all the meek and milky innocence of a 
new-born calf. Amusement became mirth and mirth 
hilarity. Laughter shook the little group like a 
summer breeze. They clapped one another upon 
the shoulder and roared. They smote their thighs 
and bent double in the ecstasy of their glee. They 
leaned against the fence and its foundations quiv- 
ered. My lawyer appeared to be hugging each of 

[156] 



The Witness 

the jurors in turn. The justice collapsed upon a 
hydrant. The butcher alone maintained his dignity 
and viewed the scene with glum disfavor. 

"Look a-here," he protested, "how do you know 
it's her steer?" indicating me. 

My lawyer looked a question. I nodded. 

Psalmmy, meanwhile, who always took less than 
a fourth of the time for his milking that I did, had 
finished his repast and was exchangiing with Bossy 
the courtesies of the morning toilet — the cow-licks 
that adorn the silky coats of the well-beloved. I ap- 
proached — this time with confidence. "Psalmmy," 
I called. Psalmmy turned about at once. He iden- 
tified me at a glance. Deliberately he braced his 
feet. His back came up into a bow. He drew in his 
chin and arched his neck. His whole frame trem- 
bled as, with a mighty effort, he brought from the 
depths of his being a long-drawn "b-a-a-a-w!" 

A renewed tempest of laughter passed over the 
group behind me. Not a man among them but was 
familiar with this greeting of the friendly "bos." 

But I had done with them. My hand was in the 
velvet folds of Psalmmy's neck and my cheek against 
his. We heard the juniper birds calling from the 
pasture and smelled the fragrance of the purshia. 



[157] 



XXIV 

PLOWING 

Autumn of this fourth year brought me a new 
and large experience. Putting In my own field crop 
was the one activity of the farm that I had not es- 
sayed. I had thought it beyond me. Once more, 
however, I was left in the lurch. My contractor, 
who had engaged early and with all due formality, 
escaped to Canada. I saw ruin staring me In the 
face, for every lost crop meant a season's buying of 
feed for the chickens and for my little *'bunch" of 
stock. A friend had left a well-broken horse with 
me for the season. In order that I might have a mate 
for Fly. Thus it was by the way of much tribulation 
that I advanced at last to the acquisition of a team 
of my own, to the loan of a walking plow, and to 
faith In my own ability to plow and seed my own 
sweet acres. 

Before three acres had been overturned I had 
demonstrated several truths beyond dispute, viz., 
that, having acquired team and plow, there yet re- 
main to the novice amazing difficulties in the assem- 
bling of the same ; that that small and modest bow 
of iron known as the clevis is of Importance ines- 

[158] 



Plowing 

timable In the economy of the field; that the gradu- 
ate in the manipulation of bolts and levers, to the 
end that the furrow may be just deep enough and 
the plow may turn just "land" enough, Is a sadder 
and a wiser being; that it matters essentially 
whether, in the circumlocution of the field, the field 
be had upon the right or left; that the natural po- 
sition of the walking plow is on its side and that it 
exercises admirable persistency in retiring to that 
position at every opportunity; that there Is a divinity 
that shapes the end of a furrow and also various 
demons — judging from the shapes personally 
achieved; that one's team, however faithful, shares 
the universal preference for the line of least resist- 
ance and discovers in the course of a few rounds 
that it eases the strain materially for the furrow 
horse to depart from the furrow; that the excruciat- 
ing "hot fly" has a traditional understanding of the 
helplessness of a plow team to flee from him and 
improves his opportunities accordingly, an under- 
standing shared by the ever-present colt, who acts 
upon this intelligence by running in between the plow 
horses and depositing with them his own pursuing 
tormentor; that beneath the surface of the innocent 
soil lurk snares and dangers manifold — stumps 
whose eradication had been duly paid for, snags ca- 
pable of parting horse and whiffletree and of rend- 
ing whiffletrees asunder; that a horse may step over 
his trace as many times in a morning as there are 

[159] 



A Homesteader's Portfolio 

angles in his course, and, to sum up all, that the 
*'plowboy*s weary way" Is more truly fact than 
poetry. 

Three acres had been overturned, presenting a 
varied scene as to depth, symmetry of lines, and 
width of furrow. Thirty-seven acres stretched 
ahead — seemingly, though the unspeakably weary 
plowman dared not admit It to herself, an Insur- 
mountable task. Then Mary De Long, one of those 
practical friends who make the world go 'round, 
lightly and casually suggested the loan of a riding 
plow and an extra horse. It is deeds like this that 
are remembered in heaven. 

Unquestionably we have an hereditary craving 
and Instinct for the touch of the soil. There is a 
peculiar depth of satisfaction In rolling It up before 
the plowshare and In combing It to a powdered fine- 
ness. Before the magic of my riding plow previous 
difficulties smoothed themselves out, like troubled 
waters before the touch of the god. My own team, 
taking their cue from the faultless furrow horse 
who was our guest, bent their heads to patient and 
obedient plodding on the endless round. I was as 
happy, perched on my little Iron seat, training my 
acres to productive usefulness, as the air man, the 
ship master, or the autoist. Day by day my triple 
team became my closer and more understanding 
friends. I felt a more and more tender apprecia- 
tion of their patient strength, their docility in wearl- 

[i6o] 



Plowing 

ness, their gentle acceptance of their toilsome fate, 
their confidence in my provision of the abundant 
ration in the enjoyment of which they sank all sor- 
rows, all regrets. 

I learned that it is well to establish quite strictly 
a schedule of work and hold to it, not only for its 
showing in the steady accumulation of results but 
because one's horses are accurate timekeepers^ — 
cheerful within the schedule, but brokenhearted at 
the imposition of over time. Each day I knew by 
their quickened step and eager ears when we had 
reached the last round before noon, and that when 
we should have won to the shade of a certain juni- 
per the point of its shadow would fall toward Pilot 
Butte, our northern pole. How confidently they 
halted there, tossing their heads and looking around 
at me ! I loved to slip off each piece of heavy har- 
ness and give them, one by one, their freedom and 
to see them gallop off across the field — pausing per- 
haps for a luxurious roll in the new-turned earth — 
to the certainty of drink and dinner. 

*'To-morrow and to-morrow and to-morrow I" 
Concentric square within concentric square, dawn 
and the plow, nooning and the plow, night. All else 
on the farm stood still that the plowing might go 
forward. And when at last we had turned under 
that central clod, upon which our eyes had rested 
for so many days, it was only to enter upon the long 
period of harrowing and seeding. It was not con- 

[i6i] 



A Homesteader's Portfolio 

venient to get a seeder, hence I sowed my seed like 
the patriarchs — straight from the shoulder. Day 
after day I walked and scattered thinking often of 
kindergarten training days when I had lightly sung 
and gestured: "Shall we show you how the farmer, 
Shall we show you how the farmer, Shall we show 
you how the farmer sows his wheat In the spring?" 
Just a trifle bitterly perhaps I recalled the lightness, 
with a touch of the laborer's resentment, when ach- 
ing arms almost refused to move and knees cracked 
with excessive exercise. And, alternately with the 
sowing, was the folding In — the last smoothing of 
the harrow, the last lap of the journey. Ready for 
rain and sun now, for heat and cold, for frost and 
thaw. Human solicitude can do no more. 

And the spiritual fruits of the plowing? Rare 
leisure and opportunity to observe the sky, the shift- 
ing sun, the maturing season; rare chance to culti- 
vate the confidence of the little birds that find treas- 
ure trove In the upturned soil and learn merely to 
hop to right or left and to answer our hail with 
cheerful chirpings; rare chance to pity the poor 
evicted creatures of the soil — dazed and paralyzed 
little mice and moles turned from their dark cata- 
combs into the blazing day, mighty Babylons of red 
ants upon whom their city "Is fallen. Is fallen." 

"Oh, Life! Oh, Life — sad and tragic, unbeliev- 
ably cruel, pitiful and hopeless, glad, triumphant, 
blithe, and gay!" 

[I62] 



Plowing 

Heritage 

"Ancestral acres," who falls heir 
Thereto in ghostly company 
Of prince and lord and feudal chief— 
Who held dominion harsh and brief 
And drew their selfish barriers close 
'Twixt mead and spring and haunted wood 
And trespass of the common hind — 
In fellowship of such he tills 
Neglected and depleted fields 
And for the sport of such preserves 
The gracious life the forest yields. 

Who breaks a homestead in the West 
And leads the trickling water through 
Where all was parched and brown and bare- 
Converts a plain of stark distress 
To green delights and loveliness — 
Who makes a lean land bountiful 
For man and beast and winged bird, 
With him his great Creator walks, 
In kinship on his faithful round; 
And with him Gardener Adam talks 
The language of ancestral ground. 



[163] 



XXV 

THE OLD OREGONIAN AGAIN 

A NEW teacher had been installed in the district 
schoolhouse. I had not had the opportunity of 
meeting her but, from certain infaUible proofs, I 
had gathered that she was no bromide. In fact, I 
more than suspected that dangerous fires were In 
process of generation, and I wished that I might be 
of some moral support to her. I stopped one after- 
noon as I came from the post office. 

The young teacher received me with a veiled de- 
fensiveness that I thought I understood, and took 
pains to dispel. 

The class were drawing the district map — fitting 
in ranch-houses, roads, and creeks, and noting in the 
corners crops raised, native herbs, grains, and trees. 
The work showed careful observation and much 
pains. I became enthusiastic. The teacher warmed 
to me and explained that she had been conducting 
excursions in the interest of geography, agriculture, 
drawing, etc., and that there had been much criti- 
cism in consequence. The board were to meet with 
her that afternoon to consult about It. The board 
presently appeared, and the school was dismissed. I 

[164] 



The Old Oregonian Again 

was about to go, but caught an appeal In the eye of 
the defendant and sat down at once. 

The Old Oregonian was In the chair. I was glad 
to see that, In the presence of the dignified young 
pedagoguess, and under the Influence of the recent 
unmistakable and graceful attentions to the battered 
old schoolroom, It was with some difficulty that he 
brought forward the complaints that had been 
lodged with him. It appeared, he said, that the 
pupils had been wasting time Idling about out of 
doors when they should have been In the school- 
room. There had even been some Irregularity of 
hours and program (the unpardonable sin). One 
pupil had lost a book In one of the jaunts referred 
to. Then they had been required to do work that 
was not fitting. They had been asked to dust, scrub, 
and decorate the schoolroom, to make curtains, and 
had even built a shed for their horses — the horses 
which had stood out in the blizzards for twenty-five 
years — and all this In time that should have been 
devoted to books. The Old Oregonian gradually 
warmed to his theme. The district employed a 
teacher to teach book-learning, he said, and, if she 
couldn't do that, it was best that they should 
know It. 

It came time at last for the accused to state her 
case. She did It well. She was a little pale, but, 
with sincere and patient effort, she sought to explain 
the aims and methods of the newer education. 

[165] 



A Homesteader's Portfolio 

The chairman and his colleagues chewed, and spat 
upon the newly-whitened floor, and waited with an 
air of suspended animation till their turn should 
come again. At length, the Old Oregonian held up 
a restraining hand. 

"Naow, naow," he protested. "That may all do 
where you come from, but it won't do here, an' it 
ain't what we pay for. Why, we've run school in 
this district for twenty-five year, an' we ain't never 
had this sort o' goin's on, an' we don't want it nei- 
ther. We ain't got nothing against you. Miss Haw- 
ley, but we know what we want you to learn them 
pupils, an' we're goin' to have it done. Now the 
program what's been followed in this district for 
twenty-five year Is in that register yonder, an' we'd 
like for you to stick to that an' make the pupils 
learn." 

I had been busy with the State Course of Study. 
In a pause, I rose with apologies and showed how 
the new teacher's work was in line with the pre- 
scribed course, and had the sanction of the Superin- 
tendent. 

Again that restraining hand. "That may all be 
so, Miss Andromeda, but we ain't never done that 
way here. Them may be the ways o' them high- 
toned folks at the capital, but they ain't our ways. 
Now my Instructions is," he concluded, "to ask this 
young lady to do our way or to let us know." 

He fixed his cool, gray eyes upon the victim with 

[i66] 



The Old Oregonian Again 

unmistakable finality, adjourned the meeting, and 
went out to his waiting horse. 

A few days later, as I passed the schoolhouse, 
Miss Hawley called me in. She was putting finish- 
ing touches to the room, and preparing to depart. 
She had resigned. 

"It's not temper," she explained. "It's not ob- 
stinacy, please believe me. "It's professional honor. 
The sooner our laws and customs give us teachers 
the rights and privileges of specialists the better it'll 
be for education, and it's my conviction that some 
of us must make a stand. Imagine sending expert 
engineers to the tropics, and requiring them to edu- 
cate the natives to an appreciation of up-to-date en- 
gineering before they dig a canal or build a bridge. 
That's what they're asking of us." 

At the post office, I encountered the Old Ore- 
gonian. "Jane Slade kin finish out the term," he was 
saying. "She aln-'t very bright, but she's raised here 
an' knows what we want. I reckon she'll do." 

But it remained for Sunday school to set the stage 
for personal combat between the Old Oregonian 
and myself. All the way down from the Creation 
to the Exodus, the Old Oregonian and I had spatted 
and sparred. I had acted upon the conviction that 
a neighborhood religious gathering should be an 
open court for interchange of serious opinion. In 
all sincerity and apropos of the story of Creation, 
I had presented the known truths of Evolution with 

[167] 



A Homesteader's Portfolio 

the enthusiasm of the amateur scientist. Two Sab- 
baths proved adequate for branding me as "The In- 
fi-delir 

My unwillingness to credit the Supreme Mind 
with the cruel and illogical "plan of salvation," the 
roots of which were (traditionally) laid in this 
early period of the world's history, aroused inimi- 
cal emotions In the breasts of the Old Oregonian 
and his friends. That the Eden story might partake 
of the nature of allegory, that the Hebrew's belief in 
his own exclusive enjoyment of the favor of the 
Almighty might be but a partial and human view, 
that the Lord might have been less tricky in his deal- 
ings with Pharaoh than the biblical account implies 
— such suggestions met abrupt and unqualified oppo- 
sition. 

"Naow, naow" — the Old Oregonian rises to the 
occasion. "If we ain't able to study Scrlptur an* 
let alone findin' fault with it, maybe we'd best stay 
home an' pray for grace. Ain't we been comin' to 
this here schoolhouse off an' on for thirty year an' 
ain't found it necessary to hold opinions outside o' 
what's regular an' orthodox?" 

"Open the eyes o' the blind, O Lord," he prayed 
each Sunday. "Snatch thy brands from the burn- 
mg. 

As a rule, the questions assigned to me from the 
printed questionnaire in the quarterly were carefully 
selected. Inadvertently, however, it fell to me one 

[i68] 



The Old Oregonian Again 

Sunday to give a summing up of the character of 
Jacob. 

^'Judged by our highest standards of conduct," I 
said, ''he was a precious rascal of an old Jew." 

Then did the Old Oregonian rise in his wrath, 
and over events immediately sequential I draw the 
veil. 

"Why, the old fellow's been conducting his cattle 
deals on the Jacobean style 'for thirty year,' " ex- 
plained the lawyer son of one of my neighbors. 
"You knocked out his main prop.'* 



[169] 



XXVI 

TO HAVE AND TO HOLD 

The term of residence required for proving up 
on my original filing was now fulfilled, but, unfor- 
tunately, some mythical citizen had filed, at some 
time long past, upon my desired additional — filed 
and utterly disappeared. A term of advertising was 
therefore necessary in order to give him time to as- 
sert his rights if he so desired. Thus another win- 
ter slipped by without special incident. It contained 
hardships and growing debts. Feed was all to be 
bought. The diligence of my hens and Bossy's irre- 
proachable milk and cream could not compensate 
for my repeated crop failures "before the fact." 
They did, however, remove all danger of my going 
hungry, and Fly's strong willingness assured my 
supply of fuel and my easy communication with the 
outside world. 

A Journal note of earlier date suggests of how 
large concern was another change that this season 
brought about. 

"If I have loved truly any creature — ^beast or 
human — I have truly loved my dogs. If I have 
received from any true affection, I have received it 
from my dogs. They rise before me — a wistful line 

[170] 



To Have and to Hold 

of those that have claimed my heart — little white 
mongrel with speaking eyes, golden collie, glossy 
black Newfoundlands, many a pathetic wayfarer 
whom circumstances or stern relatives removed from 
the sphere of my attentions, and, last and present 
forever at my feet or under my hand's caress, or 
racing hither and yon, In conjunction with my vari- 
ous jaunts. Bingo — Bingo, already of a decade's in- 
separable companionship. Bingo of the shaggy, red- 
brown coat, the ebullient physical vivacity and joy 
of living, the passionate, unswerving devotion." 

It was during this winter that the shadow of age 
began to fall upon my inseparable companion. I 
remember the day when, to my amazement, he 
wagged farewell to Fly and me and lay patiently 
down upon the porch to await our return. He had 
ceased to compete with her upon the road. For a 
time, he still showed delight in the prospect of a 
walk to the mail box, but gradually even this be- 
came more than his measure. From shadowing me 
about the place on my many excursions, he grew to 
content himself with taking up his position where he 
could keep an eye upon me, rising always when I re- 
turned to the house to slip his moist nose Into my 
hand and wag his eloquent tail in apology for fail- 
ing attentions. At times he would brighten up, as- 
sume a puppyish demeanor and coax me to throw 
sticks for him to retrieve, in our old fashion of play- 

[171] 



A Homesteader's Portfolio 

ing. Gradually lethargy grew upon him, and, like 
an old man, his wants became confined to a warm 
corner, food and drink, and the near presence of one 
whom he loved. 

It was fitting that my lone-hand crop should be 
final witness to the good faith and sincerity of my 
homesteading — my proving-up crop. It was a beau- 
tiful one — the season being exceptionally fine — and I 
loved it in its developing phases, as an artist loves 
the landscapes of his own creation. I had not 
planned to "play it alone" at harvesting as well as 
seeding time, but fate would have it so. It had been 
a peculiarly lonely year for me. My particular 
friends among the homesteaders, whose term of resi- 
dence a little antedated mine, had already proved 
up and several had sought other fields for the reim- 
bursing of their depleted fortunes. Crops were 
large that year and help an almost unknown quan- 
tity. 

So it was that, as yellow began to tinge the fields, 
desperate with the fear of losing what had cost so 
much, I set to work with a scythe and, working at 
night in order to avoid the heat of the day — the 
moon being at the full — I -had actually cut about two 
acres, when a human-hearted rancher bethought him 
of an old mower that was idle. This was put in re- 
pair for me. Fly and her companion bent their will- 
ing necks to the task, and my heavy waves of grain 
bowed obediently before the circling mower, illus- 

[172] 







* •^WPPWWInii? 



*■**'* It*- ■*, 







^i» 



The Lone-hand Crop 



To Have and to Hold 

trating, as had the riding plow in the fall, the su- 
periority of the age of invention. I still had no plan 
for the raking. It seemed that every hayrake in 
the countryside was overworked. Once more I set 
to work by hand, but this time my friends the Nashes 
stepped into the breach. A hayrake was forth- 
coming and the day was saved. Could I stack it 
alone? I confess it looked impossible. I could do 
no less than begin, however, and begin I did. For 
one month, "through long days of labor and nights 
devoid of ease," I tossed and stacked one hundred 
thousand pounds of hay^ — twenty-five tons lifted 
twice — suspending every other activity save milking 
and chicken feeding, living on boiled eggs, crackers, 
and milk, while I tossed and tossed and stacked from 
morn till dewy eve. Nor was I in the end one whit 
the worse for the experience. When the last load 
was on the last stack and I realized that I had made 
a crop from the hauling of the seed to the last fold- 
ing away of the last straw, I sat down beneath the 
haystack, while Fly and her mate nibbled unchecked 
at the heads of wheat, and gave to the world the 
inspired version that had been turning itself in my 
head the while I tossed: 

The Making of the Hay 

By Friar Butte's rugged hill slopes, 
Out Crooked River way, 
By junipers surrounded, 
There stand three stacks of hay. 

[173] 



A Homesteader's Portfolio 

And no man stirred the fallow fields 
And no man touched the hay, 
For a lone old maid that hay crop made 
And packed the stuff away. 

That was the fairest harvest 
That ever turned to gold. 
That was the gladdest mowing 
Since ages hoar and old. 
And never winds of morning 
From Nature's fragrant plain 
Did lightlier pass o'er virgin grass 
Than o'er that rippling grain. 

And was it not high honor 

To turn the pristine sod, 

To lightly fold the seeds away 

And leave the rest to God? 

As in the infant ages, 

So grew through cold and heat 

The ancient feast of man and beast — > 

The immemorial wheat ! 

This summer of nineteen-sixtcen, I was already 
overdue on the other side of the continent for an 
extended visit. I had not quite shaken off the bonds 
of old association, and the ties of blood were calling 
me. A teaching position awaited me there for the 
term of my visit, and I looked to straighten out the 
kinks in my homestead finances before I should re- 
turn again to the bucolic life. My departure awaited 
only the last act in the drama — the making of final 
proof of requisite residence and improvement. 

[174] 



To Have and to Hold 

It was a strangely significant day to me when I 
rode Fly to town for the last time. No brown 
shadow whisked and exulted beside us and my ride 
was saddened by the thought of the drooping of that 
friend who for thirteen years had shared my every 
experience. It was only a brief ceremony — the busi- 
ness at the land office. My proof was incontestable, 
my witnesses were on hand — the Nashes and the 
DeLongs — and I had ample time to arrange for my 
ticket east and to see the friendly dairyman who was 
to care for Bossy and Psalmmy, Fly and Babe. 
The white flock was also placed with a farmer on 
the edge of town, and I made part of the trip back 
to Broadview on that same evening. 

It was like a stroke of fate that only Rye days 
before my intended departure, old Bingo failed for 
the first time to get upon his feet in the morning. 
He was partially paralyzed. For a day or two I 
carried him in and out, but he was In pain and had 
reached the point where only a final sleep could ease 
him. I had long had the fatal dose of morphine 
on hand, looking toward this necessity and now I 
administered it, he accepting it obediently and hope- 
fully, as I felt, remembering other doses that had 
given him relief. He licked up a drop or two that 
had been spilled upon the floor and very quickly 
grew quiet and fell asleep. The pain he had been 
suffering followed him Into his dreams and caused 
him to moan. I placed my hand upon his head and 

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A Homesteader's Portfolio 

instantly the moaning ceased and sleep came upon 
him that knew no waking. 

Came the last evening at Broadview. How very 
still it was! No softly-cropping creatures stealing 
about in the twilight. No snowy chanticleer — pop- 
ping his head out suddenly to challenge the rising 
moon. No warm and heavy head upon my knee. 
I was very glad and cheerful, I thought, in the pros- 
pect of my home-going. I was satisfied with all my 
arrangements for Broadview and its one-time ten- 
ants, yet all unheeded, in my absorption with 
thoughts of past and present, tears were raining 
down my face. The sense of the closing of a chap- 
ter was upon me, the rending of that little circle 
brute and human that had drawn itself close and 
closer about this rare, bright chapter of my life. "It 
takes something from the heart and it never comes 
again.'* 

Some months later, as I sat at breakfast in an 
eastern city, a long envelope bearing the seal of the 
Department of the Interior was delivered to me. 
From this envelope I drew forth a document bear- 
ing in turn the seal of the United States of America. 
It was my patent and it declared that my claim to 
*'the southeast quarter and the south half of the 
northeast quarter and the lot one. Section Four, 
Township Seventeen, Range Nineteen East, Wil- 
lamette Meridian — being three hundred and nine- 

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To Have and to Hold 

teen and seventy one-hundredths acres" — had been 
duly consummated, that it was mine *'to have and 
to hold," to be the lawful right of my "heirs and 
assigns forever." "In testimony whereof, I, 
WooDROW Wilson, President of the United States, 
have caused these letters to be made patent and the 
seal of the General Land Office to be affixed." 



[177] 



XXVII 

AFTERWORD 

In this year of our Lord nineteen hundred and 
twenty-one, ten years since that Thanksgiving Day 
of glorious hopes, I still cling to the homestead 
dream. I have known lean years and leaner years, 
hope and discouragement, good fortune and dis- 
aster, friendship and malice, righteousness, gener- 
osity, and double dealing. 

My difficulties have been far oftener with the 
human element than with the rigors of the climate 
or the hardships of labor. The most melancholy 
theme of my homestead experience, and one that 
I approach only with trepidation and misgiving. Is 
the management of men. I began this chapter of 
my life with certain hypotheses, even convictions, 
somewhat as follows: Men are Innately chivalrous, 
men will respond in kind to frank and just dealing, 
men will appreciate trust and confidence and will 
justify the same. I continue the chapter with a 
number of open questions which may be stated as 
follows: Is real chivalry the flower alone of the 
highest culture and the utmost refinement? Is that 
which masks as chivalry lower down merely a sex 

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Afterword 

phenomenon — a means to a purely selfish end? Is 
straight dealing between man and man often a con- 
cession to fear — merely a politic observance, the 
benefits of which a woman may not share? What 
proportion of our citizenry regard a promise, the 
fulfillment of which entails some loss or inconven- 
ience to the promiser, as better broken than kept? 
Does the easy promiser continue to believe in his 
own promises or is he perfidious in the very making 
of them? Can one rely upon any real respect for 
justice in the so-called lower order of men, or do 
these act universally upon self-interest and preju- 
dice? 

During my two years' absence In the East, the 
care of Broadview having been carefully and legally 
arranged for, my neighbors' cattle fattened upon my 
growing crops and exploited my excellent pasture, 
ruining It for years to come. My fences, the care 
of which was to have been my only compensation 
for the full use of the pasture, were flat upon the 
ground and stock roamed at will throughout the 
place. Since my return, I have had a valuable Jer- 
sey calf mutilated, and Bossy — mother of all my 
little herd — ruthlessly killed for straying Into a 
neighbor's pasture over his down fence. 

Ah, well ! I have said I still cling to the dream. 
Now and then I have known burdens — most often 
physical burdens — too heavy for mortals to bear. I 
have been cold and hungry and ragged and penni- 

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A Homesteader's Portfolio 

less. I have been free and strong and buoyant and 
glad. Over my six hundred and forty acres — thus 
increased by a second beneficent allowance — roams a 
beautiful little Jersey herd. A group of dear white 
ponies call me mistress. White biddies still dot my 
hill slopes and cackle ceaselessly. Pax, an Armi- 
stice Day puppy, and El Dorado, son of Kitty Kat, 
have succeeded those earlier friends whose gentle 
spirits still wander with me on the sagebrush slopes. 
There is a mortgage. There Is still necessity to 
teach. My little flock of orphan citizens still beckon 
from the future. Yet, for me, the wilderness and 
the solitary place have been glad, and Nature has 
not betrayed the heart that loved her. 

A Tribute 

To those who. In the pilgrims' land, 
Have moved my life to happy ends 

And, through the seasons' wearing round, 
Have earned the sacred name of friends; 

To those with whom at household board 

Or In the forest's festal shade 
Pve broken bread and drained the cup 

And silent vows of fealty made; 

For trust in one who, far from home, 
Nor fame nor champion could boast, 

For gentle deeds of kindness done 
The stranger on the foreign coast; 

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Afterword 

For quick'ning word, for helpful hand, 
For unsaid thought and kindling glance, 

For generous plan, for happy jaunt, 
And many a joy-filled circumstance — 

To these, for such, through all the years 
My love is warm for evermore, 

For these my tepee's sheltering walls 
Hold hospitality in store. 



[i8i] 



